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MY 

LADY 


APRIL 



MY LADY APRIL 


BY 

JOHN OVERTON 



NEW YORK 

FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


Printed in the United States of America 


VAIL •BALLOU COMPANY 
BINGHAMTON AND NEW YORK 


f 

^ CONTENTS 

CHAPTER PAOB 

I. Cassillis Clears the Stage , i 

II. Lady Forrest at Home . . . . io 

III. Introducing the Hero 23 

IV. The Decoy 32 

V. Between Twilight and Dawn . . 41 

VI. The Prize Fighter 56 

VH. Larry Cavanagh 72 

VIH. Tragedy in the Air 91 

IX. Spider and Fly 97 

X. The Paper Doll 109 

XL Suspicion 115 

XII. The Watcher on the Hill . . . .122 

XIII. Lurched 132 

XIV. At the Sign of the Goat and Com- 

passes 136 

XV. Alarums 149 

XVI. Excursions 158 

XVII. Young Carew Accepts a Challenge 183 

XVIII. News 199 


CONTENTS 


OHAPTEB PAOB 

XIX. May Day at Hazelhurst .... 205 

XX. Young Carew Seeks Advice . . . 218 

XXI. The Road to Ash Holt 231 

XXII. Ash Holt Grange 242 

XXIII. T'other Dear Charmer" . . . 248 

XXrV. In the West Wing 256 


MY 

LADY 


APRIL 



MY LADY APRIL 


CHAPTER I 

CASSILLIS CLEARS THE STAGE 
LAD in yellow linen drawers and jacket, 



and up to his armpits in the steaming waters 


of the King’s Bath, Sir George Forrest 
hooked his wrist through an iron ring in the wall, 
and yawned with no attempt to disguise his bore- 


dom. 


Beaux, almost unrecognizable in the hideous cos- 
tume that custom demanded, lounged through the 
water, cropped heads tied in silk kerchiefs or 
crowned with the fashionable tricorn. Belles, half- 
hid beneath chip hats, controlled their water-logged 
dresses with some difficulty and kept watchful eyes 
upon the little wooden trays that bobbed in front 
of them, precariously carrying handkerchief, patch- 
box and nosegay. 

Habitues idled at the windows of the Pump- 
Room and the air was full of shouted conversa- 
tion; sally and repartee; compliment and laughing 
banter. 

Somewhere near, a band played noisily, and 


2 


MY LADY APRIL 


April sunshine, reflected from the troubled waters, 
rippled and splashed in a thousand jack-o’-lanterns 
upon the gray buildings. 

Through the bottom of his empty glass Mr. Cas- 
sillis caught sight of Sir George and leaned out of a 
window to hail him. 

Sir George was not enthusiastic. ‘‘Hello, Cas- 
sillis,” he yawned. “How d’e do?” 

“Didn’t know you bathed!” bawled Mr. Cassillis. 

“I don’t,” returned Forrest. “That is, not as a 
rule, y’know., Got a headache this morning. 
Thought it might do good.” 

“Aha! Too many libations to the rosy god, eh?” 
Mr. Cassillis went through a suggestive pantomime. 

Sir George scowled. “Demmed popinjay!” he 
muttered, and, loosing his hold upon the ring, waded 
through the crowd of bathers toward the dark steps 
that led to The Slips. 

Craning a long neck Mr. Cassillis watched his 
progress, and presently beckoned to a seedy-looking 
individual behind him. 

“You were asking for Sir George Forrest? 
Look, yonder he goes to dress. You’ll catch him 
as he comes out if you go round to the entrance.” 

The fellow nodded, laid a finger to his nose and 
pouched a shilling. 

Mr. Cassillis, sniffing at a pomander, minced away 
to breakfast in Spring Gardens with my Lady Gil- 
lespie, whose portrait he had just completed; and 
emerging into the sunny day a little later. Sir 
George found himself tapped smartly on the shoul- 


CASSILLIS CLEARS THE STAGE 


3 


der by a dirty hand holding a folded paper. 

‘‘What’s this?” said he, .recoiling instinctively. 

The man grinned. “I’ve served ye, right enough. 
Sir George Forrest, an’t it? To the suit o’ Mrs. 
Deykin. Eight hundred an’ forty odd.” 

“A writ ?” groaned Sir George. “O demmit !” 

Much too upset to walk he hailed a chair and 
was carried home, floundering into his wife’s room 
to find her at her dressing-table sipping chocolate 
and dawdling over an elaborate toilet. 

“O lud, George!” said she. “What need have 
you to burst in upon me like a bull in a china shop? 
What’s the matter?” 

The waiting-woman discreetly vanished. 

He flung the paper into her lap and himself on 
to a settee, threw hat and wig across the floor and 
swore till he was hoarse. 

“A writ!” Lavinia opened the paper and read 
it hurriedly, biting her lower lip. 

“A writ, thanks to your extravagance. I told 
you ’twould come to it, but you never heeded. 
You’ll land me in the Fleet ’fore you’ve done. You 
suggested taking this house and running a faro 
table. Deuced risky undertaking. I said as much, 
but you’ll never listen to reason. You would try 
it.” 

“What else could I have done, sir? We had 
to have money — ” 

“And now comes a writ, just as our tables begin 
to be fashionable. What need had you to run into 
debt?” 


4 


MY LADY APRIL 


‘^Great heavens, sir ! I must be clothed !’’ 

On the subject of his wife’s wardrobe Sir George 
expressed himself with more force than politeness; 
and Lavinia was pondering the choice between a 
swoon or hysterics when her woman tapped at the 
door. 

‘‘Mr. Cassillis to wait upon you, m’lady.” 

“Demmit, we’re not at home!” cried Sir George. 

Janet looked at her mistress. 

“Beg him to walk upstairs,” said Lavinia, and 
as the maid went, “George, don’t be a fool. He 
may be able to help.” 

“Gad, he owes us a debt of gratitude!” George 
brightened, retrieved his wig, and donned it before 
the mirror. “After all, ’twas I took him up and 
made him the rage. Why, he’d not one shilling to 
rub against another when we brought him to Win- 
terbourne and let him paint our portraits. And now 
half Bath crowds his studio.” He turned as the 
tap of high heels approached along the polished 
landing. Lavinia had a prejudice against carpets 
which deadened the sound of feet. “Hello, 
Cassillis,” cried Forrest. “Here’s sad news !” 

“Take these books back to the library, Janet,” 
said her mistress. “And call at Mrs. Wells’ and ask 
if my red petticoat is scoured. Bring it with you. 
You may have to wait. And get a yard of blue 
sarcenet at the shop in Green Street. And leave 
these notes in The Circus. And as you come back 
call at Mrs. Darbey’s for that pattern I lent her. 


CASSILLIS CLEARS THE STAGE 


5 

And then come finish me. Don’t loiter, child. Tm 
in a hurry.’* 

Annoyed that she was given no opportunity of 
listening at the door, Janet collected an armful of 
novels and took herself off. Lavinia fidgeted with 
the silver-topped jars upon her table; Sir George 
gloomily surveyed his boots ; Mr. Cassillis, glancing 
from one to the other, murmured something about 
calling later at a more convenient hour. 

“No, don’t go,” said Forrest without looking up. 
“We’re in the deuce of a mess, Cassillis. Give 
him the demmed thing, Lavvy.” 

The artist’s pale eyes met Lady Forrest’s for a 
moment. He took the paper from her hand, read 
it, pursed his lips into a silent whistle. “Eight 
forty-two. Phew ! The woman’s done you, some- 
how. Sure, you can’t owe all that for clothes !” 

Lavinia’s indignant rejoinder died in her throat as 
she met his glance. 

Sir George got up and began to pace to and fro, 
airing his grievances, relieved that this painter fel- 
low took his view of the matter. He had been 
half afraid that Cassillis would side with Lavinia. 
A puppy, always hanging on to some woman’s 
skirts ! 

“Well, ’tis deuced unpleasant, but nothing worse,” 
said Cassillis at length. “You’ve a week.” 

“O lud, I can’t pay it!” 

“No? Hum.” Mr. Cassillis meditated, sucking 
the head of his clouded cane. “Of all God-forsaken 


6 


MY LADY APRIL 


holes, a sponging house is — the — most — ^abhorrent. 
I know. Tve tried em !” 

“The bad old days ’fore you met us, eh?” sug- 
gested Sir George hopefully. 

“Exactly.” 

Sir George pondered the question of how much 
he might reasonably expect to borrow from Mr. 
Cassillis, and was dashed by the other’s next words. 

“The only alternative,” mused Mr. Cassillis, “is 
— ah — flight.” For the fraction of a second his 
pale eyes rested on Lavinia. 

“Flight? Demmit, I can borrow — ” 

Mr. Cassillis looked sideways. “On what se- 
curity? No, my dear fellow. You don’t borrow, 
you abscond.” He waved airy fingers. “Ab- 
scond. Ride to Southampton. Take boat to 
Folkstone. Once there, any smuggling lugger will 
put you ashore in France and no questions asked.” 

“Od rot you, man, you’ve got it pat!” said Sir 
George suspiciously. “One’d think you’d planned 
it all out.” 

“La, no I” Mr. Cassillis giggled. “ ’Tis mon- 
strous simple. I’ll put it about that you’ve taken the 
London road. Once in Paris you can start another 
gaming house and come back in a couple o’ years’ 
time positively rolling in money.” 

“Gad, that’s not a bad notion!” Sir George 
glanced at the mirror and preened himself. At 
forty-two he was still a personable fellow. “Paris ! 
What a life! Where’s Doll? Let’s have her in 
and tell — ” 


CASSILLIS CLEARS THE STAGE 


-7 

‘‘Dorothy's visiting Miss Abrams for a day or 
two,” interposed Lavinia. “There's no need to dis- 
tress her — '' 

“Distress?” echoed Sir George. “We'll tell her 
nothing of all this. I’ll take Charles and go to 
Paris on business. You wind up affairs here and 
follow with Dolly and your woman. What’s sim- 
pler? Let her stay on at the Jewess’s by all means. 
She’s well out on’t. Cassillis, you’ll be discreet? 
Well, I’ll see my man about the horses. The sooner 
I’m off the better.” Amazingly cheered by the pros- 
pect of Paris, Forrest nodded his farewell and strode 
off whistling. 

Mr. Cassillis flourished through a bow, straight- 
ened up, and as the door closed, tossed hat and cane 
upon the couch and crossed to Lavinia. 

“Well, what now?” said she, rising. 

With his hands at his hips and feet apart, he 
stood regarding her with a curious smile. 

She looked up: met his eyes: stiffened into 
immobility. 

“To be brutal, you owe me close upon two thou- 
sand pounds already, Vinny,” said he. “Did you 
believe I should be such a fool as to lend you more?” 

She remained silent, stone-cold, staring at him 
with dilated eyes. 

“You and I — ^together — could make more out of 
faro than do you and Sir George,” said he beneath 
his breath. “Your tables don’t bring you in enough 
to live as you do, and I know a few things about 
faro that — ” 


8 


MY LADY APRIL 


‘‘Not yet, but they will,” she said determinedly. 
“We’re just beginning to be fashionable.” 

“This writ’ll ruin you.” 

“O lud, I can run the house without George !” 

“But my dear creature, there’ll be a sale. The 
place’ll be stripped. They’ll leave you nothing but 
what you stand in ! I dare swear you owe others be- 
side your dressmaker, and when the news gets about 
your tradesfolk’ll come clamoring. What then?” 
An unconcerned observer might have thought Mr. 
Cassillis exulted. 

Lady Forrest sank into a chair, still staring in a 
dazed way at the man before her. “I — I thought 
maybe — you could help,” she faltered. 

He dropped to his knee and took her hands. 

“Gad, Vinny, I’m no philanthropist ! Why 
should I stir a finger to help your husband? I’m 
thinking of myself — and you. Here’s a chance in 
a million, and are we to let it slip for fear of gos- 
sip? You’re no child, to be frighted at such scare- 
crows, and I — ” 

“You take too much for granted, sir,” she re- 
buked him. “D’ye think I’m a woman to run off 
with the first man that throws his kerchief ?” 

Mr. Cassillis got to his feet, dusted his knees, 
glanced at her, and grinned. “I take nothing for 
granted, madam.” He discovered her hand-glass 
among the litter upon the dressing-table, and pre- 
sented it, bowing. “Allow me.” 

Lady Forrest thrust it away. “You — you devil !” 
she cried below her breath. “Ah! Cruel — ” 


CASSILLIS CLEARS THE STAGE 9 

‘'Madam, you amaze me. I am the soul of kind- 
ness and — ah — generosity. I give. I lend. I de- 
mand no usury. And like Lazarus, I’m content 
with the leavings from another’s — ah — stable.” 

“Cad !” she said vehemently. 

Mr. Cassillis shrugged, snuffed, and strolled to 
the window where rosy chintz curtains obscured the 
sun. 

Lady Forrest looked helplessly after him, utterly 
at a loss. Never in all her life had she experienced 
such treatment. It astounded her, but she found 
something of a fascination in it. Flattery would 
have left her cold ; open courtship had no value what- 
soever, being an everyday affair among the gallants 
who crowded her rooms. 

Mr. Cassillis intrigued her. 

At the end of five minutes he found her at his 
elbow. 

“Well,” said he, taking her by the shoulders, and 
regarding her with twinkling eyes, “which shall it 
be? Vienna? Berlin? Rome?” 


CHAPTER II 


LADY FORREST AT HOME 

B elow the windows of Sir Julian Carew the 
Bath band serenaded that old beau upon the 
attainment of his eightieth birthday. An 
unwonted guggling in the performance provoked in- 
quiry ; neighboring sashes were thrown up, becapped 
heads thrust out ; shouts and laughter mingled 
with the music. 

‘‘O lud !” snapped Lady Forrest. ‘‘What ails the 
creatures? Janet, go see.’' 

Her woman stepped out upon the balcony and 
looking across the street beheld the cause of the con- 
fusion lounging at ease upon the sunny pavement, 
eating fruit. 

“Well ?” called her mistress impatiently. 

Janet giggled. “ ’Tis a gypsy ragamuffin sucking 
lemons. La, see the flageolet a-shaking his pipe! 
No wonder they can’t play. Here comes Sir Ju- 
lian’s major-domo to tip ’em.” 

A pompous old servant descended the semicircular 
stone steps before Sir Julian’s door, distributed sil- 
ver, swore genteelly at the loafer, and retired. 

The discomfited musicians swore with a differ- 
ence; spat, shook out their instruments, and beat a 
10 


LADY FORREST AT HOME 


II 


retreat, growling; and the gray thoroughfare, 
splashed with sunshine and the gay green of April, 
sighed its relief and drowsed again. A black and 
white cat came up the area of the Forrest house and 
began a comprehensive toilet, and the gypsy kissed 
his hand to her and faded into the landscape after 
the manner of his kind. 

Unaware of the cat, Janet took the salute to her- 
self, tossed her curls, tweaked the curtains into place, 
and collecting empty chocolate cups, flounced away. 

As the door closed upon her Lavinia Forrest 
turned to the woman who brooded, plump and com- 
placent, upon the settee beside the hearth. 

‘‘Well, Kate,’' she invited. “What’s this of a 
new-comer? I heard the bells.” 

Mrs. Darbey jerked forward. “Why, my love,” 
she quacked, “the town talks of no one else. Six 
foot, and as handsome as Acheron — or am I think- 
ing of Achilles? And the favorite of his uncle. 
Sir Julian, though to be sure he’s not the heir un- 
less his cousin should — well, well, we must hope for 
the best. And generous, my dear, to a fault. The 
dipper told me he gave her a guinea before he’d so 
much as put his lips to a glass. And he’s engaged 
to attend the ball to-night, I had it from the book- 
shop on the walls — ” Mrs. Darbey paused to 
breathe. 

“A Carew, did you say?” Lady Forrest emptied 
a trinket box into her lap and chose half a dozen 
rings, fitting them abstractedly upon her thin fin- 
gers. 


12 


MY LADY APRIL 


‘^Ralph Carew. Sir Julian keeps his eightieth 
birthday to-day. A great age. Strange, an’t it, 
Sir Julian, the eldest o’ the family, should out-live 
his brothers? Henry died at forty. Raymond at 
forty-five. Carews seldom make old bones, but 
they know how to enjoy life. They tell me Ray- 
mond was almost a pagan, so rash, so willful. Lud, 
Valerius don’t take after him! Must favor his 
mother, I suppose. Spaniards are so lazy, an’t they ? 
The climate. Sir Julian don’t seem to take kindly 
to his heir. Dotes upon Ralph. Regards him as a 
son. Sure, ’tis a monstrous pity — ” She relapsed 
into sighs. 

‘‘What is?” inquired Lavinia. “How you do 
gabble, Kate!” 

“Why, my love, my thoughts run so fast I vow 
I can’t keep pace with ’em. What was I saying? 
O lud, yes! A pity young Ralph an’t the heir. 
So friendly, so good-natured, and quite unattached 
— I have it on the best authority. And is your 
daughter to be at the ball ? A sweet child. I won- 
der — ” Mrs. Darbey’s small gray eyes brooded 
certain romantic possibilities. 

“And the cousin,” inquired Lavinia. “Is he 
married?” 

“Valerius? What an unfortunate name! 
Sounds like a medicine! Married? O lud, no! 
As well expect an oyster to fall in love. Poor 
creature !” 

“Deformed?” suggested Lady Forrest, smoth- 
ering her exasperation. 


LADY FORREST AT HOME 


13 


Mrs. Darbey snooped forward like a duck in’" a 
gutter. ‘‘Heavens! You don’t tell me,” she 
gasped, round eyes protruding a little. “Well now, 
’tis not remarkable. He’s not crippled. I saw 
him but yesterday on the Parade. A lanky, lan- 
guid fellow, monstrous over-dressed, and so bored 
he seemed ready to fall asleep as he walked. 
What’s the defect?” 

“Oh, nothing,” replied Lady Forrest. “Don’t 
jump to conclusions, Kate.” 

“And how is dear Sir George? I han’t seen 
him about this age!” 

It appeared that dear Sir George had posted to 
London a week ago on urgent business. Skillful 
questions elicited the information that Lavinia 
might possibly have to follow him, and that Doro- 
thy would visit in the neighborhood until her par- 
ents returned. 

“No bad news, I trust?” Mrs. Darbey was avid 
for detail. 

“O la, no!” yawned Lavinia. 

“Family matters, perhaps?” 

“Yes. Monstrous boring, an’t they? I protest 
I hardly know whether a family wedding an’t worse 
than a family funeral. And how I detest wearing 
black.” 

“Ah!” Mrs. Darbey hit the trail at last and 
beamed her satisfaction. “Well, I hope ’tis a 
legacy.” 

Lavinia allowed her to hope but changed the sub- 
ject adroitly, and various reputations in Bath were 


14 MY LADY APRIL 

under dissection when the maid appeared, wide- 
eyed. 

'‘Mr. — Everett, m’lady,’’ said she, plaiting the 
hem of her pinner. 

Lady Forrest turned sharply and recognized a 
danger signal. "Lud, how tiresome men are ! 
Did you tell him I was engaged?” 

"Most particular, m’lady. But he said ’twas 
important.” 

"What’s o’clock, child?” 

" ’Tis close on twelve, m’lady.” 

"O lud!” quacked Mrs. Darbey, rising hastily. 
"And I vowed I’d meet Lady Sue at noon!” She 
collected her fan, her muff and her silk bag ; preened 
herself and made her adieu, explaining at great 
length that she had missed half a dozen appoint- 
ments in order to visit her sweet Lavvy. 

Her sweet Lavvy pecked at her, smiled mechan- 
ically, and nodded to her woman. 

Janet reappeared a moment later. 

"Who is it?” asked her mistress. 

"A rough-looking fellow, m’lady. He got his 
foot in the door ’fore I could slam it. He’s a- 
sitting in the dining-room.” 

"Did Mrs. Darbey see him?” 

"La, no, m’lady. I took good care o’ that!” 

Lady Forrest exchanged her wrapper for a gown 
and descended to make acquaintance with the genus 
bailiff. It was not a pleasant experience. Barthol- 
omew Griggs prided himself on his manners with 
women. 


LADY FORREST AT HOME 15 

Revolted, Lavinia escaped to her boudoir and 
summoned Janet, but when the maid came her 
mistress for once found nothing to say. 

The two women looked at one another. 

‘Tf quite convenient to you, m’lady, I should 
wish to leave, not being accustomed to having the 
bumbailey a-sitting in my dining-room, as it were.’* 
She was prepared for reproaches. 

‘Tt’s very well,” assented Lady Forrest, out- 
wardly composed. “Be good enough to lay my 
pink taffety ready for to-night. And Janet, say 
nothing to Miss Dorothy. I’ll not have her dis- 
turbed. She’ll sleep till five, and then you may 
dress her for the ball. Order a chair for six 
o’clock.” 

She turned to her desk and chose a pen, trying 
the nib upon a finger-nail. 

“But, m’lady, do we open the rooms to-night as 
usual?” gasped Janet, never able to understand her 
mistress’s self-control, and invariably losing her 
head before Lavinia’s icy restraint. 

“Of course.” 

“But the—” 

“He can sit in the pantry. See that he has a 
good supper and plenty of ale, and Janet — ^you may 
lock him in. I’ll not have him coming upstairs 
among my guests.” 

Impressed, Janet retired; dusted the gaming- 
rooms upon the first floor, replenished the candle- 
sticks, and descending, set glass and china ready 
in the dining-room. 


i6 


MY LADY APRIL 


Bartholomew Griggs, writing laboriously in a 
dirty pocket-book, dogged her steps. 

‘'Get out from under my feet, I tell ye!’^ said 
Janet at length. “You’ll get trod on. What are 
you at?” 

“Tottin’ up the furniture, missie,” rejoined 
Griggs. “What’s the lay? Party to-night?” 

“Ho, no more’n usual!” said Janet, breathing 
on a spoon and rubbing it vigorously. 

“We entertain lavish, don’t we?” chuckled 
Griggs. “Let’s see. Cut glass aypernay badly 
chipped on foot. Four, eight, twelve, sixteen — 
ecod! how many o’ them long-legged glasses?” 
He sucked his pencil and eyed the table apprais- 
ingly. 

“Keep your fingers off ’em!” snapped Janet, os- 
tentatiously polishing. 

“Oh, bless your heart, I an’t doin’ no damage. 
But anything to obleege a lady.” He smirked at 
her and pottered round the room, examining the 
gilded mirrors and muttering to himself. Janet, 
watching him sidelong, was suddenly concerned 
about her wages. It became imperative to know 
what would happen in the course of the next few 
days. 

“Well,” said she more amicably. “I’m for the 
town.” 

“Shopping?” queried Griggs. 

“Ordering the supper,” she told him. “What’s 
your fancy?” 

Bartholomew owned to a passion for trillibub. 


LADY FORREST AT HOME 17 

Janet sneered. ‘‘We’d have the gentry take this 
for a tripe house! Choose something that don’t 
stink, man I Onions, indeed 1” 

“Most things as is tasty smells,” mused Griggs, 
scratching one eai. “And I do love something 
tasty. What about oysters, miss?” 

Janet signified approval and invited him to come 
carry her basket. 

“Can’t leave, me dear,” Griggs wagged a shabby 
head. “I’m in possession, an’ here I stays till the 
sale’s over. Nothing’s to be took away, d’ye see. 
I’m responsible. I doubt I should let ye take a 
basket strictly speakin’ — ” 

“Don’t be a fool!” snapped Janet. “D’ye ex- 
pect me to carry oysters in my apron?” She 
flounced off, donned cloak and hood and hurried 
in to the town, where passing an apothecary’s, she 
developed a raging toothache and dived down three 
steps into the little shop. 

“Something to make you sleep?” said the as- 
sistant, leaning solicitously over the counter. “Bet- 
ter let me draw it, miss, and ha’ done with it.” 

“Oh, ’tis but a cold,” said Janet, her hand to 
her cheek. “I’ll take two powders, please. Do 
they taste badly?” 

“Put ’em in your supper beer and you’ll never 
know you’ve had ’em,” he assured her. 

Dressed, perfumed and painted. Lady Forrest 
went on a tour of inspection through morning-room 
and dining room, where refreshments were spread 


i8 


MY LADY APRIL 


upon long tables, and servants, hired only for a 
few hours each night, waited napkin in hand. 

The rooms set aside for gaming occupied the 
whole of the first floor. Lavinia glanced in and 
found Janet distributing new packs of cards. 

‘‘Where’s that man?” she inquired. 

The abigail looked up. “He’s had his supper 
and he’s asleep in the butler’s pantry, m’lady.” 

“Did you lock him in?” 

“No, m’lady. I did better. He’d ha’ kicked 
the door down and raised a monstrous racket. I 
put a sleeping powder in his ale. He’s safe till 
morning.” 

Lady Forrest stopped suddenly, a finger at her 

lip. 

“You’re certain he’ll not wake?” 

“Oh la, yes!” returned Janet. “The pottecary 
vowed one would ensure a good night’s rest. I 
gave him two.” 

“ ’Tis very well. I shall close the rooms early 
to-night, child. My head aches. You needn’t sit 
up for me.” 

“Thank you, m’lady.” 

Lavinia idly picked up a pack of cards, cut, and 
glanced at the result. The Queen of Hearts. Her 
fate was sealed. 

Oddly at ease now that her decision was made, 
she left the gaming-rooms, and climbing the stair 
to an attic bedchamber, entered without ceremony. 

Her daughter Dorothy stood upon a chair before 
the toilet-table, examining her slippered feet in a 


LADY FORREST AT HOME 


19 

small mirror, and turned pettishly as Lady Forrest 
came in. 

“What on earth — ?” began Lavinia. 

Dorothy shrugged and descended. “If I am to 
be your decoy you might at least give me a long 
glass,” she pouted. “For all I know my petti- 
coat’s inches below my gown, and half the urchins 
in Bath will be shouting that my father loves me 
better than my mother.” 

Lavinia winced a little. “Janet should dress 
you.” 

“Janet neglects me shamefully. When can I 
have a woman of my own. 

“ ’Tis too costly, child,” said her mother, eyeing 
her. “You’re exquisite. Come, control your tem- 
per, or you’ll ruin your mouth. There’s nothing 
lines a face like ill-humor. Remember that, miss !” 

The young girl lifted a candle in each hand and 
gazed into the mirror, scrutinizing herself as though 
her reflection had been the picture of a third per- 
son. 

A fair-skinned, oval face confronted her; golden 
hair caught up in distracting curls, frosted with 
powder; blue eyes shadowed by heavy lashes; a 
patch below a dimpled mouth. 

“Well,” said Lady Forrest complacently, “you’re 
the prettiest girl in Bath. Make the most of your 
time, child. We Bridlingtons age early.” 

“O me!” cried Dorothy. “My time, forsooth! 
’Tis little chance I have. I’m nothing more than a 
bait, and Fm tired of it! I want — ” 


20 


MY LADY APRIL 


‘‘You want a master, eh?’' sneered her mother, 
and caught her wrist in thin, cruel fingers. “Are 
you so enamored of your glimpses of married life 
that you want to rush into the trap? Little fool! 
Now attend — Sir Julian’s nephew will be at the 
Rooms to-night. Ralph Carew. Remember the 
name. He must be induced to play here to-mor- 
row. To-morrow! You understand? What, 
have I bruised your wrist? Well, tie a black rib- 
bon round it, 'tis the last fashion.” 

Ignoring Dorothy’s half-uttered remonstrances. 
Lady Forrest sailed downstairs, telling herself that 
she had done all that could be expected of her. 
She had secured Dorothy’s future, for young Carew 
could not fail to fall captive to so much beauty in 
distress. 

The beauty was there for all to see : the distress, 
alas, was inevitable. Lady Forrest had no inten- 
tion of taking a grown daughter to Vienna. The 
chit knew her world. She could look after her- 
self. Lavinia grudgingly acknowledged that she 
must leave her some money. 

A gathering hum of talk below told that her 
doors were open, but she sat down at the bureau, 
wrote a letter, enclosed some gold, sealed it, ad- 
dressed it to Dorothy and slipped it into her pocket. 
Then, throwing a scarf about her shoul- 
ders, she descended to the drawing-room, aglow 
with candle-light, almost impassable for chairs and 
card-tables. A larger table was set in the farther 
room, exposed by the folding doors; and habitues 


LADY FORREST AT HOME ii 


were already hurrying to their seats, greeting ac- 
quaintances, their eyes set abstractedly. 

In spite of herself, she shivered. 

It was as though, dead, she watched her world 
move on without her. Her reign in Bath was over. 
After to-night her candles would remain unlit, her 
rooms empty. Her flight would cause no more 
than a surface ripple on the life of the town. 
Shrugs, leers, a half-uttered sentence — and she 
would be forgotten. Another would start a gam- 
ing-house, defying law and order. Jealousy of her 
unknown supplanter sickened her: she loved the life 
she led, the little power she wielded. She loved the 
atmosphere of excitement, of risk, of delicious un- 
certainty. It was hard to give it up at the moment 
when half the fashionable world of Bath flocked to 
her tables. She was too old to begin all over again 
in another country. 

Almost she resolved to stay on and brazen matters 
out, and remembered that before many days were 
over the furniture, the glass and china, the very 
clothes she wore would be sold to pay her debts. 

Flight was unavoidable, and flight with Cassillis 
preferable to flight alone. She waited with what 
patience she could muster until her guests went down 
to supper; and then, alone among the disordered 
chairs, she faced Cassillis. 

“What now?’' he asked. “Have you decided?” 

“It must be to-night,” said she, composed, pale 
beneath her rouge. “There’s a bailiff in the house 
— wait! I’ve no time to explain — my woman’s 


22 MY LADY APRIL 

drugged him. Til stop the play at half after ten, 
and then — ” 

“You’ll come! I’ll have a chaise under the big 
cedar on the London road at eleven. I’ll to my 
lodging, and pack. We must get away before 
Dorothy comes home. What’ll the child do?” 

“Oh, I’ve arranged for Dorothy,” Lady Forrest 
assured him. “Till eleven!” 

They separated with a handclasp. Mr. Cassillis 
found hat and cloak and let himself out of the house. 
Lady Forrest sailed down to supper. 


CHAPTER III 


INTRODUCING THE HERO 

said young Carew, ‘*your very good 
W health!’’ 

The old man seated at the head of the 
shining table gazed bleakly up at the young man, 
bowing, glass in hand; gazed, smiled, and sighed. 

‘‘Thank’ee, lad. Thank’ee. But don’t wish me 
many happy returns o’ the day. ’Tis not to be 
desired. Eighty! Great heaven, and it seems but 
yesterday that I was eighteen!” He fell silent, 
twirling his empty glass by its twisted stem. 

Young Carew stretched out his hand impulsively 
and pressed his uncle’s withered fingers. “Gad, 
sir! You bring the tears into my throat,” he said. 
“I regard you as a second father. I — I can’t lose 
you — yet.” 

Sir Julian grinned. “You managed to exist a 
couple o’ years without me.” 

“Only because you refused to come, sir!” ex- 
claimed Ralph, flushing. 

“Pho! The Grand Tour at seventy-seven! I’d 
ha’ been damnably in your way, lad. There, I 
was but plaguing you. You’re a good boy, but how 
goes the song? 


23 


24 


MY LADY APRIL 


^Crabbed age and youth — 

I>et’s see. You must be three and twenty?’’ 

“Twenty-four, sir.” 

“Twenty-four. Gad, you’ve all life before you. 
And heart-whole, eh ? Ha, Bath’ll soon mend that I 
Running over with pretty maids. You can take 
your pick of a posy. We’ll have you wed ’fore 
the year’s out.” 

The prospect did not seem to appeal to young 
Carew. “You never married, sir,” he began. 

Sir Julian moved uneasily in his great chair. 
“No, lad, no. I never married. But ’tis the only 
proper life for a man — or woman either, for that 
matter. It is not good for man to be alone. Ah, 
you love your freedom, but wait till you face a 
lonely old age. You must do better than I. I’ll 
live to dandle your son, please God.” 

“I’ll endeavor to oblige you. Uncle,” laughed 
Ralph. “But there’s no haste, is there?” 

His uncle glanced at him. “No, no haste. Still, 
I’d like to see ye wed. Well, ha’ ye seen aught o’ 
Val? I bid him dine with us, but it seems he has 
forgot.” 

“No, I’ve not met with him as yet,” replied 
Ralph. “How does he spend his time? He ap- 
pears to have no interests. I — made inquiries — 
but—” 

“Devil take me if I understand the fellow!” cried 
Sir Julian irritably. “He comes and he goes as 
the whim seizes him. In and out o’ the house 


INTRODUCING THE HERO 25 

every day for a week, and then never a sight of 
him for month on end. And then one day he 
lounges in as though he could scarce drag one foot 
after t’other, and sprawls all over the furniture in 
most unseemly fashion for a man of breeding. And 
never a word of explanation or apology. Strange ? 
Rat me, I think he’s a fool, or mad! Raymond 
was crazy to take a foreigner to wife!” 

“He was named at the chocolate house in my 
presence,” said Ralph. “I mentioned our relation- 
ship and asked — er — where he could be found. If 
you’ll believe me, sir, the room positively shouted 
with laughter. I wondered — ” 

Sir Julian condemned his kinsman feature by 
feature : swore he was no Carew to make the name 
a byword and a laughing-stock: thumped angrily 
on the arms of his chair with clenched fists upon 
which the knuckles stood out whitely: and was 
with some difficulty soothed by young Carew who be- 
came a little alarmed at his uncle’s unbridled rage, 
and strove to lead his thoughts into another channel. 

“D’ye go to the ball to-night?” asked Sir Julian 
at length, sipping his wine and leaning back still 
flushed with his recent vehemence. 

“Not if you’d like me to remain, sir.” Ralph 
shot a furtive glance at the tall clock in the comer. 

“Pho! No. I’m no spoil sport!” declared Sir 
Julian. “Come now, what d’ye think o’ the fight 
to-morrow ? What’s this I hear of a boxing gypsy ?” 

“Merodach? Faith, I’ve not seen him, sir. I 
know nothing but gossip. The odds were in his 


26 


MY LADY APRIL 


favor in Orange Grove this morning, but being 
new come to Bath Vm all at sea. From what I 
could gather the other’s the safe man.” 

‘"Brooke?” mused Sir Julian. ""Ah, he put up a 
good fight five years ago. I doubt he’s too old for it 
now. Well, Harris, what is it?” 

The major-domo bowed, holding the door. ""Mr. 
Valerius, sir, to pay his respects.” 

The baronet’s heavy gray eyebrows drew together 
as a pale figure lounged into the circle of candle- 
light : a tall exquisite clad in creamy satin, fair hair 
falling in curls about his powdered cheeks. 

""What, candles ?” said he in some surprise. "" ’Tis 
still daylight — ” 

""I prefer to dine in private,” grumbled Sir Julian. 
""That Forrest woman across the way is for ever 
peering at me from the windows. Shameless bag- 
gage! I draw my curtains ’fore I sit down. 
What, sir ! I bid ye dine with me and here ye come 
nigh two hours late. An’t my table dainty enough 
to suit your stomach?” He snatched his fingers 
away as his nephew bent to kiss them. ""Od rot 
ye, man! I’ll not have your foreign tricks! Shake 
hands !” 

""Sir, I tender a thousand apologies — ” 

""Pho! One’s enough, one’s enough.” 

"" ’Twas impossible to dine, I — ” 

""Then ye’ll wine. Harris, another glass.” 

Valerius Carew waved the servant away. ""I pro- 
test, sir, my — my doctor positively forbids it.” He 
sank into a chair, a laced kerchief at his lips. 


INTRODUCING THE HERO 17 

“Zoons, Val, are ye quoth his uncle testily. 
^‘What’s a glass o’ port more or less? Ye look 
hale enough!” 

‘‘Appearances, my dear sir,” drawled Valerius, 
putting long legs across the seat of another chair, 
“appearances are not always to be relied upon.” 
His languid eyelids flickered : a smile twitched at the 
corner of his fine mouth. He looked across at his 
cousin. “Well, coz, and so we meet at last! You 
must have left England as I landed. Ah, the Grand 
Tour? And you return a polished rolling stone! 
No moss about you, Ralph, eh? I like your taste 
in waistcoats. Paris ? Gad, what a hole this town 
must seem after Paris? Positively a hole! A 
wallow full of wallowing fat cattle!” 

“Don’t ye sneer at Bath, sir!” expostulated Sir 
Julian, thumping the arm of his chair. 

“O dear sir. Truth’s at the bottom o’ the well. 
I looked in at the Pump-Room this morning 
and the King’s Bath was full — positively full of — 
of prodigies in yellow calico, wallowing. Faugh! 
A fearsome spectacle! What brings you to Bath, 
Ralph ? Rheumatism ?” 

“I came post from London to congratulate Sir 
Julian,” said Ralph coldly, staring with ill-concealed 
disgust at his foppish kinsman. 

“Congratulate? O lud, and I forgot! Sir, a 
thousand pardons! What a moongazer I am!” 
He took the old man’s hand and shook it warmly. 
“Happy returns. Uncle! And may your dearest 
wishes come home to roost !” 


28 


MY LADY APRIL 


‘Thank’ee, Val. Thank’ee.’' Sir Julian thawed 
a little. ‘'Well, ha’ ye news o’ the fight ?” 

Valerius was obviously at a loss. “Fight? Oh, 
to be sure. I hear Sir Harry’s bird won him close 
upon three hundred guineas. Killed two cocks 
as dead as mutton, and so mauled another that 
they wrung its neck. Oh, a very devil, I assure 
you.” 

“Zoons, I’m not talking of cocking! The fight, 
man! The big fight to-morrow. Brooke against 
some dark horse of a gypsy. What d’ye make of 
it?” 

“Oh,” drawled Valerius. “Boxing? Gad, I’m 
no oracle.” He examined his nails with care, 
breathed upon them, polished them with a laced 
kerchief, and broke into a high-pitched giggle. 
“What d’ye think? Old Lady Kirkpatrick lost her 
snuff box at the Rooms last night, and when ’twas 
found ’twas full of — ” 

“Od’s bud!” Sir Julian thumped angrily upon 
both arms of his chair. “One’d think you was a 
lady’s maid!” he roared. “Tittle-tattling gossip, and 
never a care for a gentleman’s amusements ! I dare 
swear you never went near the cocking match?” 

“You’re right, sir. A bloody business,” returned 
his nephew wearily. “I abhor blood.” 

“Sure, I think your veins run milk!” jeered the 
old man. 

“So? What says our divine Will? 


INTRODUCING THE HERO 


29 


*, . . Yet do I fear thy nature; 

It is too full o' the milk of human kindness 
T 0 catch the nearest way . . 

‘‘Tcha!’’ sputtered Sir Julian. ‘‘Hamlet was a 
fool, and mad into the bargain!” 

“Indeed? You amaze me, sir. But as it chances 
I was speaking of Macbeth, who was neither a fool 
nor mad, but merely — hagdriven.” 

Disconcerted, Sir Julian helped himself to wine 
and pushed the decanter toward Ralph. “Another 
glass Tore ye start for the ball, lad. What, no 
more? Well, well, ’tis wise to keep a cool head 
among all this gallimaufry. Tis a queer crowd 
gathers here, and ye can’t be too careful.” 

“I’ll heed your warning, uncle,” laughed the 
youngest Carew. “But sure, after two years of 
foreign travel a man should be able to take care of 
himself. Are you coming, coz ?” 

“Where? To the Rooms? Heaven forbid! 
And as it happens I have — other engagements. 
The stars in their courses fight for me, Ralph. 
Fare ye well.” 

For a long time after the younger cousin had gone 
Sir Julian remained sunk in his chair, glowering at 
his heir, and thwarted affection embittered his next 
words. 

“Gad!” said he below his breath. “That the in- 
heritance should descend to such a booby !” 


30 


MY LADY APRIL 


'^You can break the entail, sir,” suggevSted Va- 
lerius, apparently waking from a doze. 

“Pho! You’ve sharp ears, young man!” 

*‘1 thank God,” returned his nephew piously. 

Sir Julian grunted, following the carved spirals 
of his chair with nervous fingers. ‘‘Come, come!” 
he quavered at length. “You’re young, Val. 
Shake off this damnable sloth. I vow I half believe 
you pose! We Carews — gad, we have our faults, 
but they’re of the hot-blooded sort. None of us 
has been the brainless ass you appear. By heaven, 
sir. I’d rather see you a rake than — than a flaccid 
nonentity!” 

Sir Julian became unprintable. It was a full- 
blooded age, and he was never one to mince words. 

A flush stole up his nephew’s cheeks beneath their 
mask of powder, the muscles of his jaws drew tense. 

“What, have I stirred you?” cried the baronet, 
and chuckled. 

“No, faith,” drawled Valerius, stretching. “I 
blush for your language, sir.” 

Sir Julian became almost apoplectic in his wrath; 
shook feeble hands in the air ; called heaven to wit- 
ness he’d break the entail; choked, gasped, and fell 
back in his chair clawing at his cravat. 

Harris came in answer to a clamoring bell. 

“See to Sir Julian,” said Valerius. “He’s — 
excited, Harris. I strongly disapprove of excite- 
ment. Is he often so?” 

Harris went to the dresser and returned with a 
restorative, motioning the young man to be silent. 


INTRODUCING THE HERO 31 

He drew back the curtains and threw up a window ; 
and presently, under his ministrations Sir Julian 
opened bloodshot eyes, coughed, drained the 
glass, and scowled upon his kinsman. 

“You came near finishing me with your non- 
sense,” he muttered. “Go away ! Harris, send 
him away. I’m too old to be badgered. What, 
sir! You’re laughing at me. I swear you laugh 
at me. No Carew was ever a milksop. Get ye 
gone! Go to the devil so that you find your man- 
hood, I care not ! Harris, send for Robertson. I’ll 
break the entail . . . demmit, Ralph — Ralph’s the 
lad! He shall have—” 

His head fell back and Valerius caught him round 
the shoulders. “Go fetch a doctor!” he said. 
“Get his bed warmed.” 

Old Harris shambled away, discovered the foot- 
men at cards in the pantry, and sent one for the 
doctor: woke the drowsing housekeeper and bade 
her fill the warming-pan : and having given a dozen 
orders to the startled servants, climbed the stairs 
again, panting a little in his haste. He might have 
been out of the room some twenty minutes. 

Sir Julian lay dead upon the floor beside his desk. 
There was no sign of Valerius Carew. 


CHAPTER IV 


THE DECOY 

A CROWD of chairmen carrying sedans 
blocked the flagged court before the doors 
of the Assembly Rooms, jostling each other 
to the vast inconvenience of their passengers, who 
cursed or shrieked as became their sex. Running 
footmen elbowed a way through the crush for their 
masters; link boys hung about, awaiting engage- 
ments as escort when the ball should be over. 
Loungers gathered to watch the quality, for the 
Abbey clock had but just told six, and spring sun- 
light shamed the candles that flickered in the sconces 
of the ballroom. 

White hat tucked beneath one arm, an ancient 
dandy leaned upon his cane; quizzing new-comers; 
greeting acquaintances ; frowning majestically upon 
any who did not satisfy his fastidious taste. 

Beaux minced in ; bowed to the King of Bath and 
raised square glasses to scan the seats against the 
walls, eyes alert for an alluring glance from the 
beauties who swam to and fro, hoops swaying, fans 
accentuating trifles of gossip, tit-bits of scandal. 

Boyishly eager, young Carew made his way 
through the throng. Women appraised his figure; 
32 


THE DECOY 


33 


men discussed the fashion of his brocaded coat; 
shy girls, peering from the shelter of dowagers’ 
wings, hoped he would notice them and beg the 
favor of a dance. 

Dorothy Forrest caught his name and turned to 
look at him as he was presented to old Lady Kirk- 
patrick; and young Carew murmured inane replies 
to inquiries after relatives whom he seldom saw and 
was only too glad to forget, following the girl with 
eyes that glowed. 

Gad, this was Bath! An English rose. Deli- 
cious memories of the dark-skinned beauties of his 
travels faded into mere pleasant recollection. 

“Young man!” Lady Kirkpatrick’s fan upon his 
wrist made him start. “Attend me, if you please. 
Your wits are wool-gathering. ’Tis dangerous 
sport in Bath. The unwary lamb goes off shorn!” 
Her puckered eyes beneath their bushy brows re- 
garded him mischievously. “And how doth your 
great-aunt Sophia?” 

“Faith, ma’m, I believe she’s well,” answered 
young Carew, aware to his finger-tips that the rose- 
pink girl was watching him from the shelter of 
her fan. “That is, I — I — gad, I recollect now, she 
died last year while I was in Venice. I’d not seen 
her for an age, ma’m. I’d forgot.” 

“And your cousin Valerius? He’s not here to- 
night ?” 

“No, ma’m. I believe he has other engage- 
ments.” 

“Ha! A strange creature. Tell me, does he 


34 


MY LADY APRIL 


frequent that woman Forrest's rooms? A bag- 
gage! What, han’t ye heard of ’em? Yon- 
der’s the daughter, out hunting game for her 
mother’s table. He, he! A pretty pair! Take an 
old woman’s advice and keep clear of ’em, my 
dear.” 

Young Carew raised an astounded face. *‘What, 
ma’m? That beautiful child — a decoy?” 

‘'O me! that these things should be!” jeered the 
dowager with a grimace. ‘T dare swear that in 
fancy you was leading her to the altar. Well, fore- 
warned is forearmed. Keep out of her clutches. 
A vampire ! Nash should forbid her the place, but 
he’s the worst gambler o’ the lot. Well, you don’t 
want to listen to my croakings. D’ye dance? Let 
me present ye to my niece. Sarah ! Sarah ! Where 
the devil has the child got?” 

Miss Sarah crept from a back seat and curtsied 
to the shining floor; and taking his due place in 
the order of dancers, young Carew did his duty, 
walking a couple of minuets before he escaped, his 
blue eyes roving in search of the rosy goddess so 
brutally maligned. 

He found her presently in a smaller room, drink- 
ing tea beneath a glass chandelier, and for an in- 
stant he stood wondering if the picture she made 
was fortuitous or designed: she was as well placed 
as a statuette in some connoisseur’s gallery. The 
soft light of the candles shone like an aureole in 
her glimmering hair ; her eyes were shadowy under 
their veil of thick lashes; her rosy gown seemed 


THE DECOY 


35 

almost to radiate light. He could not believe that 
she was painted. 

Half a dozen men surrounded her, ogling, flat- 
tering, thrall to her dainty loveliness, intrigued by 
her very imperturbation. Jealous of the new- 
comer’s appearance they gathered closer, turning 
their backs upon Carew, attitudinizing, barricading 
Dorothy with lifted shoulders and gesticulating 
hands. 

Carew smiled and awaited his opportunity, and 
as he watched there came a hair-raising crack, one 
of the supporting chains broke, and the great can- 
delabrum tilted suddenly to one side and hung sway- 
ing, glass lusters clashing, a cloud of lighted candles 
falling like meteors. 

The beaux beneath sprang backward, swearing, 
shouting, protecting themselves from the flying fire 
with upflung elbows and tricorn hats. But before 
Dorothy Forrest could rise Carew burst through 
the ring, lifted her bodily and bore her off. 

It was all over before those in the ball-room 
realized the danger. Servants put out the guttering 
candles, cleared the room and locked the doors for 
fear the candelabrum should crash to the floor. 
Dancing continued; tea and cards claimed their de- 
votees. 

Beyond the locked anteroom Ralph Carew paused 
on the threshold ; and unwilling to g^ out into the 
street with the girl in his arms, turned aside into a 
smaller room, laid her on a couch and threw open a 
window. 


MY LADY APRIL 


36 

Presently she sat upright, smiling faintly, her 
hands busy with her disordered gown. 

‘"O lud!” said she. ‘Tm all over grease!’' 

Carew looked blank. ‘‘You might have been 
burnt to death, madam,” he began, piqued. 

“True. I might. But for your heroic conduct, 
fair sir. You think I should be at you on my 
knees, groveling gratitude?” Adorably mischie- 
vous, she teased him, chin tilted, eyes dancing behind 
lowered lashes. 

“Give thanks to heaven, madam.” 

“O lud, I do — I do! A burnt skin is such an 
abomination I” She stood up and looked him in 
the face; her voice dropped a full tone. “I thank 
you too, sir, with all my heart.” She took a rose 
from her bodice and brushed it with her lips. “ ’Tis 
near crushed to death, but it smells all the sweeter 
for that. ’Tis yours, sir, if you will.” She held 
it out to him with fingers that shook a little in spite 
of her sang-froid. 

Young Carew took flower and hand and all, and 
bent his lips to them. 

“La, sir, how you tremble!” laughed the girl. 
“There was no danger, was there?” 

“ ’Tis in the touch of you,” he told her; and had 
her in his arms before she guessed his intent. 

Dorothy Forrest released herself with dignity. 

“Keep your distance, sir. What though you 
saved my life? You have no right — ” 

“I beg your pardon. Miss Forrest,” said Ralph, 
and bowed. 


THE DECOY 


37 

She pondered him, a finger at her lip. ‘‘You 
know my name? O la! half Bath knows my name. 
My reputation — save the mark! — is at the mercy 
of those old tabbies in the card-room. No doubt 
Lady Kirkpatrick solemnly warned you that I was 
a decoy? O lud, what a horrid tale for innocent 
ears! And you believed her, and thought me law- 
ful prey — ’’ 

“ Tore God, I did not !’* cried Carew, shocked. 

“Yet you’d have kissed me?” 

“Gad, ma’m. I’m not a plaster saint! What man 
with you in his arms could — ” 

“Pho !” sneered Miss Forrest. “ ’Tis no more 
than propinquity!” And sank again upon the 
couch, her fan at her chin; her eyes, mischievously 
alluring, lifted to his. 

Being no plaster saint, young Carew did as most 
men would have done: seated himself beside her, 
took possession of her hand, said whatever sweet 
nonsense came first to his tongue; declared that 
he must see her again next day; begged for a 
tryst, blue eyes alight and pulses hammering in his 
throat. 

In spite of herself Dorothy was stirred, roused 
from her studied apathy by his impetuous wooing. 
At the bottom of her heart she felt she still cherished 
her old dream of a Fairy Prince who would come 
one day and carry her off from the loathsome life 
she was compelled to lead. Beneath his ardor the 
cloak of her indifference fell away like the split 
sheath of a flower; and timidly, hesitating on the 


38 MY LADY APRIL 

brink of passion, she blossomed under his very 
eyes. 

Young Carew was aware only of her rising color, 
her catching breath ; that the child’s soul was open- 
ing like a rose he did not dream; he saw no more 
than a pretty girl, shielding her flushed cheeks with 
a gauze fan. 

Presently into their dimly lit retreat came a serv- 
ant seeking him : coughed, muttered an apology and 
backed away. 

“What is it?” asked Carew, rising. 

“Mr. Carew, sir? A man from Sir Julian Ca- 
rew’s to see you. Most urgent, sir, or I’d not have 
ventured — hem ! Been looking for you all over the 
Rooms, sir, for the last half-hour.” 

“Bid him wait. I’ll see him in a moment.” 
Ralph turned to Dorothy Forrest. “Where do you 
live? Where can I meet you? Give me time and 
place and I’ll — ” 

“No.” She shook her head. “No, I’ll be frank 
with you, Mr. Carew. I — I was sent here to-night 
to — to make certain that you’d come to the house 
to-morrow. My parents keep a — a faro table. It 
is all true — I — I am their decoy.” Her voice broke, 
she held him off with resolute, trembling little hands. 
“No! You must never see me again — I — I’ll not 
lure you to your ruin.” 

He laughed and took her. “Why, sweeting. I’m 
no pigeon to be plucked at will! I’ve seen some- 
thing of life. I can be trusted alone!” 


THE DECOY 


39 


‘‘No!*’ she insisted. “No. Believe me, sir, I — I 
like you too well to have a hand in your undoing. 
Forget that we ever met. I — I beseech you, let me 
go — the servant — ” 

Footsteps in the corridor sent them yards apart, 
flushed, a little dizzy. 

The girl escaped through a farther door that led 
to the ladies’ dressing-rooms; the man turned to 
face his uncle’s major-domo, gray to the gills, breath- 
less, perspiring. 

“Why, Harris?” cried Carew. What’s amiss?” 

“More than I like to tell, sir.” The old man laid 
a shaking hand upon his arm. “After you left, 
Mr. Ralph, Sir Julian quarreled with Mr. Valerius. 
I heard high words, sir, an’ I an’t ashamed to say 
I listened at the door, bein’ nervous for Sir Julian, 
sir, on account of his heart. The doctor warned us 
’twould come if he got roused, an’ roused he were, 
Mr. Ralph. Fair ragin’. The bell went fit to 
deave ye, an’ I goes in. ‘Send for Robertson,’ he 
gasps. ‘Demme,’ says he, ‘I’ll break the entail, 
Ralph’s the lad for me.’ An’ then he falls a-chokin’ 
an’ a-clawin’ at the air. I give him a draught we 
had by us, an’ went below-stairs to send one o’ the 
men for the doctor. An’ when I got back, sir. Sir 
Julian were lyin’ dead an’ Mr. Valerius was — gone.” 

“Good gad, Harris I” cried young Carew. “What 
d’ye mean? Valerius ran away and left him to die 
alone ? The chicken-hearted cur I” 

Harris wagged a mournful head. “I wish I 
could think so, Mr. Ralph. I wish to heaven I 


40 


MY LADY APRIL 


could believe it. But facts is facts, an’ ’tis a fact 
I heard ’em a-quarrelin’.” 

‘'Zoons, man! What are you hinting? Speak 
out!” 

The servant dropped his voice to a hoarse whis- 
per. *1 thinks, Mr. Ralph, I thinks Mr. Valerius — 
made quite sure Sir Julian couldn’t break the entail 
afore he went an’ took hisself off!” 

‘‘Murder?” whispered young Carew. 


CHAPTER V 


BETWEEN TWILIGHT AND DAWN 

T he Globe Inn in King’s Mead Square rang 
with shouts and laughter and all the jolly 
uproar of men gathered for a merrymak- 
ing. Piles of dirty plates encumbered the dresser, 
empty bottles lay heaped in corners of the room, and 
round the table sprawled a score of young bloods 
intent on making a night of it. 

Flushed with wine; pulling at long clays; scrib- 
bling notes of incredible wagers, these patrons of 
sport hammered on the board with pewter pots and 
howled for a speech, until, urged from behind by 
eager partisans, a tall man rose in response. 

Of all in that smoke-wreathed room, he alone was 
sober and master of his tongue: clad in a shabby, 
carefully brushed suit of brown cloth, a blue necker- 
chief knotted about his throat, he stood for a mo- 
ment smiling absently, leaning on strong, brown 
hands spread upon the table. 

‘"Speech!” bawled Sir Harry Kirkpatrick from 
the chair. “Speech ! Silence for the gypsy ! Hie ! 
Silence, gen’lemen, I beg. Damn it, be quiet ! Now, 
on wi’ ye, Merodach.” 

They fell silent, staring owl- fashion at the lean 
41 


42 


MY LADY APRIL 


young face above them. The gypsy laughed and 
stood erect, tucking his thumbs into the armholes of 
his striped waistcoat.’^ 

‘"Ecod, gents and lordings,^^ said he, white teeth 
flashing in a wide smile. “You know well enough 
I can’t speechify! An’ if I could, what should I 
say? ‘Thank’ee, lords and gentles, for a meal I’ve 
scarce tasted, and wine I’ve not drunk.’ Cock’s 
blood, what it is to be in training!” 

They howled with laughter as at some stupendous 
joke: swore it was a burning shame: vowed they’d 
make up for it once he had won the fight : promised 
him a carouse next night and lifted slopping tank- 
ards to his very good health. 

“Gen’lemen, I’ll be givin’ ye a sentiment. The 
true British spirit, which, like purest gold, has no 
alloy!” Mr. Larry Cavanagh, swaying on his feet, 
was interrupted by a shout from the top of the table, 
where a red- faced little man expostulated, gestic- 
ulating violently. 

“My very words, Mr. Cavanagh. My own ex- 
pression! You’re a demmed plagiarist — ” 

“I protest, sir n-not in the least, upon me soul !” 
declared Larry, flourishing a full glass. “Merely 
quoted. Captain Godfrey. Merely quoted. A man 
may quote, I presume, without offense ?” 

“Demme, sir! You gave it as your sentiment, 
and you’ll find it in my pamphlet on the Champions, 
my peroration, sir ! Demme, name your friend, Mr. 
Cavanagh, and my representative shall wait upon 
him in the morning. What’s that? Nash be 


BETWEEN TWILIGHT AND DAWN 43 

demmed for an infernal little milksop ! Can’t a man 
fight if he — ” 

“We carry no swords in Bath, sir,” interposed 
Cavanagh eagerly. “But faith, mine’s rustin’ in 
me lodgin’, an’ I — ” 

“Gentlemen, gentlemen, ha’ done!” Sir Harry 
Kirkpatrick thrust down the pugnacious little soldier 
and called for order. “As Chairman on this — 
f’licitous occasion, I must — ^positively I must insist 
on peace. Shall we in — hie — infringe the pre — pre- 
rogative of our champion Merodach, by — by cour- 
renancing a perry quarrel on the very eve of his big 
fight? Hie! Perish — I say — perish the thought! 
Larry, your hand. Captain, yours. Gen’lemen, a — 
a sublime sen’iment surras — hie ! surras we have jus’ 
heard expressed, belongs to — the posterity — ” 

Cheers drowned his voice. The Captain was un- 
derstood to accept the explanation. Mr. Cavanagh 
pledged him handsomely and expressed a burning 
desire to purchase a dozen copies of the Captain’s 
immortal work. 

Through the genial hubbub that filled the room 
broke the name of Valerius Carew. 

“Gad, it’s a queer fish !” said one. 

“His young coz seemed anxious to behold him! 
First person I’ve e’er met who wasn’t flying in 
t’other direction. A bore? Gad save me, Revell, 
Carew’d bore the Sphinx! He han’t a word for a 
friend nor a blow for an enemy nor — stap me! nor 
an eye for a wench!” 

“And his cousin wanted to meet him, eh?” 


44 


MY LADY APRIL 


‘‘Yes. Told me he’d never set eyes on Val. It 
seemed deuced odd.” 

“Oh, Raymond Carew vred a nigger — well then, 
a foreigner, and old Sir Antony refused to meet her. 
So they lived abroad. Valerius han’t been in Eng- 
land long and the youngkier’s but just back from 
Germany — ” 

“Paris! Seen his clothes? Oh, he posted hell- 
for-leather from town to kiss dear nunkie’s hands 
and wish him long life.” 

“Pshaw! He’s eighty!” 

“Just. The lad knows which side his bread’s but- 
tered.” 

“But Valerius inherits, he’s — ” 

“An’ do ye say so?” Mr. Cavanagh cocked an 
eyebrow. “Do ye say so, indeed? Faith, time’ll 
show.” 

“Where’s young Carew to-night ? An’t he inter- 
ested in sport? Old Carew’d stake the last tooth 
in his head on Brooke.” 

Sir Harry laughed. “Old Carew’s not seen our 
Merodach. Brooke’s antiquated.” 

“Broughton coached him, didn’t he?” 

“Merodach’s pupil of Broughton’s, too. Oh, ’tis 
a sweet match! Merodach, here’s luck, an’ damn 
you if you’re beat! I’ve laid my last crown on 
you !” 

“ ’Tis a cracked one, Merodach, cracked in the 
ring! Take no heed of him, man!” shouted Cava- 
nagh. “We’ll all be ruined entirely if ye fail. 
What, ye’re not leavin’ us?” 


BETWEEN TWILIGHT AND DAWN 45 

’Tis ten, gentlemen, and Fm for bed,'’ returned 
the gypsy, rising. 

“Who’s it will be takin’ ye home? An escort 
ho!” 

“ ’Tis his trainer’s business.” 

“Gentlemen, I train myself, and I need no pro- 
tection, thanking you kindly.” A mischievous light 
flickered in Merodach’s eyes for an instant as he sur- 
veyed his patrons, who appeared more in need of 
escort than capable of giving it. “Till to-morrow, 
sirs, and thank’ee for your entertainment !” 

Under cover of a shouted chorus he made his 
escape and set out for his lodging, striding bare- 
headed through the narrow streets; breathing deep 
to clear his lungs of smoke; lifting dark eyes to 
the moon that shone above the clustered house-tops ; 
whistling below his breath. 

The coming fight caused him no uneasiness. He 
had met and vanquished more formidable opponents 
than Brooke: he had no misgivings, although he 
knew that the fortunes of a dozen patrons depended 
upon his victory. 

Brooke’s adherents had no misgivings either ; their 
plans were well laid. 

As the gypsy swung into an alley among the 
huddle of markets north of Orange Grove, a lame 
beggar whined for alms. Merodach stopped, thrust- 
ing both hands into his breeches’ pockets to search 
for a coin, and something abominably heavy hit 
him on the back of the head. He fell like a log. 
The lame beggar sprang upon him, trailing a length 


46 


MY LADY APRIL 


of rope, and presently, bound wrist and ankle, and 
still unconscious, Merodach was borne away by 
four men. 

Avoiding the watch they chose by-ways and at 
length reached the outskirts of the town. The Lon- 
don road lay empty in the moonlight, patched with 
black shadows, still wet from a recent shower. A 
black and white cat picked her way between the 
starry puddles and, gaining an area railing, peered 
down. Four men were carrying something cum- 
brous into the empty house. 

Half an hour passed before they reappeared with 
a bundle of clothing;, a brown suit, a blue necker- 
chief, stout shoes, all tied together with a pair of 
gray worsted stockings. 

“Not a hitch,” said one. “Demme, ’twas easy as 
kiss my hand. He’s safe out o’ the way.” 

“What’re ye going to do wi’ the clobber ?” 

“Pitch it in the river, o’ course.” 

“What d’ye stand to win, Giles ?” 

“Ecod, a tidy lump!” The rogue chuckled and 
jingled loose coppers in his pocket. “There’ll be no 
fight. ’Twas play or pay, and Sir Humphrey Mid- 
dleton’ll make it worth our while. I’ll take my oath. 
Sst I what’s this?”’ 

From the dark house of Sir George Forrest a 
cloaked figure emerged, hood clutched about its face, 
one shoulder dragged down by the weight of a 
valise. The woman was off up the London road 
with never a glance behind, and as the clack of high 


BETWEEN TWILIGHT AND DAWN 47 

heels faded, Giles caught at a comrade’s coat skirts. 

“Let her go,” he urged. “ ’Tis an assignation, 
for sure. There’ll be a man somewhere waiting an’ 
we don’t want to be seen about here. Off to bed wi’ 
ye, cullies.” 

Lady Forrest stopped the play at an extraordinary 
hour that night. By half after ten the house was 
empty. Her guests wondered, grumbled, protested, 
swore. She laughingly declared that they might 
stay until three o’clock next evening, but to-night she 
would be private. 

There was no gainsaying that. 

The rooms once empty, she extinguished the lights 
and carried her winnings upstairs to her chamber. 
Janet was asleep before the fire and roused, smother- 
ing a yawn as her mistress came in. 

“You may unpin me, child,” said Lavinia wearily. 
“And then get to bed.” 

“An’t you well, my lady?” Janet glanced at the 
clock. “ ’Tis but half after ten.” 

“I’m tired to death,” sighed Lavinia. “Give me 
my wrapper and the salts. No, I need nothing else. 
You may go.” 

Janet went as far as the turn of the stair, blew 
out her candle and waited. As was to be expected. 
Lady Forrest threw open her door five minutes later, 
glanced round, and retired again. The abigail heard 
the key turn. Leaving her shoes upon the upper 
landing she endeavored to see what was afoot, but 


MY LADY APRIL 


48 

the key blocked her view and she returned to sit 
huddled upon the attic chair, drowsing, yawning, 
wondering what her mistress could be at. 

The slam of the front door awoke her and craning 
over the rail she listened for Dorothy’s step in the 
hall. It did not come. She was mistaken. Some 
one had gone out. 

Muttering to herself, Janet lit her candle, pulled 
on her slippers, and ran downstairs to find Lady 
Forrest’s door wide and the room in darkness. 

‘‘Lawks !” ejaculated Janet, and broke into a flood 
of execration. “Gone? Oh, the viper! And what 
o’ my wages, three months due and nothing left — ” 
She plunged into the clothes closet ; rummaged 
through tumbled drawers; flung aside the bed cur- 
tains to examine the pillows; sobbing in impotent 
rage as she shook out soiled kerchiefs and overset 
half-empty band-boxes. “Rot her ! Never a groat, 
an’ Sir George, an’ Mr. Charles off to France, though 
they did think to hoodwink me wi’ their talk o’ 
London, I’m no fool — and a bumbailey in the pantry 
— an’ now my lady off, eloping for what I can tell. 
Oh, the beldam! Not so much as a jeweled but- 
ton !” She rushed to the dressing-table. The silver 
tops were missing from the essence pots ; the buckles 
had been torn from two pairs of shoes ; there was not 
a trinket of any kind. 

Her eyes fell on a letter. She caught it up, and 
a jingle of money came from the folded paper. The 
woman hesitated, fingering the seal, remembering 
that the theft of more than forty shillings committed 


BETWEEN TWILIGHT AND DAWN 49 

in a house was a crime punishable by death. Yet 
she had not received her wages. She set her teeth 
and ripped the letter open, counting the gold eagerly. 
Ten guineas. It would serve. She rolled it in a 
wide silk ribbon and pinned it carefully in an under- 
pocket : then she realized that in her haste she had 
so torn the letter that it could not be refolded. 
Sweeping aside a litter of brushes and rouge pots 
she spread it flat upon the table, poring over it, her 
lips pinched between fingers and thumb. 

dear Doll,^’ wrote Lady Forrest, “You are 
aware that your father has been called away on 
business. I have of a sudden found it necessary 
to go too. Do not be Alarmed. Janet will look 
after you. I enclose ten guineas as you may need 
some Money. No doubt more will be forthcoming 
shortly but I beg you to be Careful. It will be well 
if you leave Bath within the week and post to your 
cousin’s at Winterbourne Chase. Wait there until 
I send for you. All this is Monstrous upsetting but 
it could not be Avoided. I have Perfect Confidence 
in your Ability to take care of yourself, but have 
nought to do with Mrs. Bradley. The woman has 
a most unpleasant Reputation. 

“Your affect, mother, 

“Lavinia Forrest.” 

Manifestly, it was impossible to give that letter 
to Miss Dorothy lacking the ten gold pieces. Janet 
glanced at the clock, tore the paper across and across 


50 


MY LADY APRIL 


and held the scraps in the flame of a candle. As 
the ashes fell sidelong to the carpet she set her 
foot upon them, rubbing them to powder. Then un- 
reasoning, panic terror laid hold upon her. 

The house was empty save for the bailiff asleep 
upon two chairs in the butler’s pantry, but at any 
moment Miss Dorothy might return. Greed and 
dread of the law fought in Janet’s mind, but it was 
not her intention to leave empty handed. She 
snatched a silk petticoat and a brocaded gown, gloves, 
fans, and a lace scarf, rolled them into two bundles 
and finding a long leathern strap among the trunks 
in a garret, slung her booty over her shoulders. 
Her wide cloak covered the bundles well enough to 
pass unnoticed in the night. 

Moving stealthily she crept downstairs and out 
by the garden door and the shadows swallowed her 
up. 

Thus it came about that Dorothy Forrest, still 
flushed with the demure gayety of country dances, 
was put into her chair by three adorers and carried 
home to a deserted house. 

That Ralph Carew did not reappear to dance with 
her troubled her not at all. She understood that 
his uncle’s servant had summoned him away. If 
she knew anything of men he would not rest con- 
tent until he had contrived a meeting. It was de- 
lightfully romantic, to be sure ; but her mother would 
storm at her when she saw those grease spots upon 
her gown, a new one, hardly worn. She hoped that 


BETWEEN TWILIGHT AND DAWN 51 

Lady Forrest would be too tired to notice them; 
she might slip unobserved to bed, and try what a 
hot iron and flannel would do in the morning. 

Emerging from her chair she dismissed the men 
with the assurance born of long habit, and set her 
key in the door. It was a damning fact in the eyes 
of Bath, that latch-key, that trapesing to and fro 
at all hours, without so much as a maid in attend- 
dance. Dorothy thought nothing of it. 

The door swung back upon a dark hall: fortune 
favored her: doubtless her mother’s guests had 
left earlier than was ordinary, and she had retired. 
It was monstrous lucky. 

The girl groped her way to the dining room, raked 
the dying fire, and lit a taper at the embers. Candle- 
light revealed scattered plates and glasses, despoiled 
dishes upon the dresser, chairs set all ways as though 
invisible occupants still gossiped. Dorothy hesi- 
tated. It was odd that Janet had not cleared away. 

She poured wine, chose a cake and stood eating, 
still a little excited over her adventure; pondering 
young Carew’s impetuous wooing; smiling; flush- 
ing; acknowledging that he was a presentable fel- 
low; exultant in that Lady Kirkpatrick’s malicious 
tongue had had no effect upon his estimation of her. 

Nibbling at a candied pear Dorothy took her 
candle and went above-stairs, glancing into the de- 
serted gaming rooms. The air smelt stale and she 
propped the doors open. 

On the next landing she paused outside her 
mother’s room, arrested by a white silk stocking 


52 


MY LADY APRIL 


that trailed across the threshold. The door stood 
slightly ajar and she pushed it wide and entered, 
aghast at the scene of confusion that met her eyes. 
Drawers had been pulled out of their chests and 
turned upside down upon the floor. Heaps of rum- 
pled underclothing lay in corners ; a hat was in the 
grate and a bottle of essence was spilt over the 
dressing-table, which reeked of bergamot. 

“Mother cried the girl, and snatched at the cur- 
tains of the bed, not knowing what she might find. 
The pillows were flung against the foot; the bed 
had not been used, for Lavinia’s night-rail was 
folded under the covers. Amazed, frightened, 
Dorothy lit more candles and searched the room, 
half expecting to discover a letter, a message of 
some sort. 

There was nothing. 

She went into her father’s chamber and found 
it empty but more or less in order. His valise and 
the saddle-bags were gone from the cupboard in the 
wall ; the closet where his man slept was empty too, 
but she knew that Sir George had taken his valet 
and ridden to London on urgent business a week 
ago. 

Sobbing under her breath, the girl ran about the 
desolate house, a candle flaring in one hand, her 
skirts caught up in the other; calling in frightened 
whispers; almost distraught with half-formed mis- 
givings ; forgetting all her mother’s cruelty and spite 
in her anxiety as to her fate. 


BETWEEN TWILIGHT AND DAWN 53 

At length, dishevelled, tear-stained, she gave up 
the search, lingering at the stair-head, remembering 
that she had not been through the kitchens. The 
thought of the dark basement stayed her: she would 
wait until the morning. 

Trembling, she climbed to the top of the house, 
peered into one attic half filled with trunks and 
lumber, and hastily retreated to her own room, a 
garret with sloping roof and great cupboards built 
into the walls. A door at one side led to the smaller 
room where Janet slept, and Dorothy went in once 
more to make quite certain that the woman was not 
there. She opened the door of a closet, pushed at 
the hanging clothes ; knelt down to peer beneath the 
bed. Naturally the buxom Janet was in none of 
these places, but somehow it comforted her to look. 

Presently, tired out with apprehension and dismay, 
Dorothy undressed and crept to bed, falling into an 
uneasy slumber, her tear-wet cheek pressed into the 
pillows. 

In the small hours of the morning Bartholomew 
Griggs fell off his two chairs and awoke, cursing. 
A curious taste in his mouth suggested that his sup- 
per ale had been drugged, and he remembered that 
the woman had urged him to help himself gener- 
ously. Women were the devil. 

He got to his feet and rubbed his cramped legs, 
stamping about the pantry to restore circulation; 
and then, resolved to spend the rest of the night in 


54 


MY LADY APRIL 


a more comfortable way, he went upstairs in search 
of cushions and a settee, and something to wash 
that vile taste from his tongue. 

The dining-room provided wine and Griggs got 
rid of the taste without difficulty, ate a second sup- 
per and emptied three bottles of canary. Then he 
looked about him with the hazy notion that a bed 
would be convenient. 

Rolling out to the hall his hands fell on the 
banister and he climbed slowly, clinging to the rail, 
aware that doors gaped upon the landings but un- 
willing to let go his hold in order to explore. 

“Mushn^ disturb th’ quality,” he mumbled. 
^‘Atticsh besh f’r likes o’ me.” And adventured 
higher, stumbling in the dawning light that showed 
gray through the tall windows. 

As her door swung inward beneath his weight 
Dorothy awoke and sat upright, dazed, cold with 
sudden fear. The man lurched forward, and even 
as she scrambled to the floor he collapsed upon her 
bed and immediately slept. 

Panic-stricken, Dorothy darted into Janet’s 
room, pushed to the door and dragged a table 
against it ; and creeping into the wall-cupboard sank 
down upon a fallen cloak and sat shivering in her 
thin night-dress. 

The unreality of a dream hedged her round. 
The whole evening seemed to have been one long 
series of disasters, and even in the sanctuary of 
Janet’s clothes-closet there was no peace, for a 


BETWEEN TWILIGHT AND DAWN si 

rat was scrabbling intermittently in the wainscot. 

Dorothy abhorred rats. She raised her hand and 
smacked the wall with the flat of her palm, and 
was startled almost out of her senses to hear an 
answering blow. 


CHAPTER VI 


THE PRIZE FIGHTER 

P ETRIFIED with sudden fright Dorothy sat 
rigid, palpitating, crouched against the wall, 
choking back the scream that rose in her 
throat. Hordes of rats were preferable to the 
drunken creature asleep upon her bed. 

A pulsating silence followed that one terrible 
knock, but after a while she became aware that 
something moved in the wall at her ear. There 
came a muffled groan, a subdued scuffling, then 
an unmistakable blow, thudding upon bare boards. 
To Dorothy’s certain knowledge the house next 
door had been empty for over a year. She held 
her breath to listen. 

The thought of ghosts never entered her mind. 
There was something human and alive, shut into 
a cupboard similar to that in which she crouched. 
A big dog, perhaps. Dorothy had spent the greater 
part of her childhood in the country and was per- 
fectly accustomed to big dogs, the bigger the bet- 
ter. If she could get it out a big dog would be 
a very comforting companion. Heartened at the 
thought she tapped again, and again came an an- 
swering thumps an inarticulate appeal for help, 
curiously close to her ear. 

56 


THE PRIZE FIGHTER 


57 


She felt along the papered walls of the closet 
and her fingers slid into a crack, a long groove 
running downward to the floor. Panting with 
eagerness and amazement, tremulous with excite- 
ment, she wrenched a steel buckle from one of 
Janet’s shoes and tore at the paper. 

There was a door. 

A heavy body turned over in the farther cup- 
board and uncouth sounds suggested that some one 
was trying to speak through a gag. 

‘‘Oh, what is it?” cried Dorothy. “Who’s there? 
Can you hear me? Push at the wall!” 

A man’s knees and feet forced back the little 
door and Dorothy peered through, groping in pitch 
darkness. As the prisoner struggled to a sitting 
posture and thrust forward his head her fingers 
encountered thick, crisp hair, and the knotted ends 
of a kerchief. The gag was out almost before she 
knew how she had done it. 

“Thanks,” said a deep voice. “Have you a 
knife?” 

“I — I can fetch a scissors,” gasped the girl. 
“What—?” 

“I’ll tell you more when Fve had a drink.” 

Scrambling backward into Janet’s room, Dorothy 
presently found a jug of water and a pair of stout 
scissors. She crept again into the cupboard and 
held the jug while the man drank thirstily. 

“Phew!” said he. “A foul cotton gag! They 
might ha’ given me clean linen, but ’tis too much 
to hope from sandbaggers.” 


58 


MY LADY APRIL 


His voice puzzled Dorothy: it seemed familiar, 
and yet unlike any other that she had ever heard. 
She faltered something about scissors. 

“If you’ll get a light I’ll roll over and you can 
reach my wrists,” he said. 

Retiring again to Janet’s room Dorothy found 
flint and steel, but as the candle flared up beneath 
the glowing sulphur match, she caught sight of her- 
self in the cracked mirror, and realized that she 
was clad only in her night-dress. She snatched the 
first garment that came to hand, knotted a kerchief 
about her shoulders, and carrying the light went 
back to the cupboard. 

The man looked up to find a slender girl in the 
gray cotton dress of a waiting-maid, kneeling at the 
opening to his prison; her neck half hidden by a 
white muslin, her slim fingers glowing rosily against 
the candle flame. The girl looked down upon a 
swarthy, half-naked fellow bound hand and foot 
with thin, strong cords. He wriggled over and lay 
upon his face while she cut through his bonds, and 
when at length his wrists were free he bade her, 
rather roughly, to leave him. 

She pulled a blanket from the bed and tossed it 
into the closet, and then retiring to the dressing- 
table, busied herself with her tumbled hair. Pres- 
ently out into the garret strode a savage figure, 
black hair tossing over black eyes, sinewy arms and 
legs bare : the blanket with a hole cut in the middle 
covered him from shoulder to knee, and was girded 
over his narrow hips with a length of rope. 


THE PRIZE FIGHTER 


59 

Yet in spite of his barbaric aspect Dorothy found 
nothing to fear. 

‘‘I’ve spoilt your blanket/^ said he, smiling down 
at her. “Will your mistress whip you?’* 

Not knowing quite how to correct his very nat- 
ural mistake, Dorothy shook her head. 

“Is the household asleep, child? Can you get 
me food and drink? I’ve been mewed in that hole 
for hours.” He dropped upon the bed and began 
to rub his chafed ankles. 

Dorothy moved to lift away the table from the 
door. He looked up, amazed. 

“What, d’you barricade yourself at night ? Good 
gad! Here — let me — ” He would have opened 
the door for her but that she stayed him, a finger 
at her lips. 

“There’s a man asleep in there — I’m afraid — I 
don’t know — I don’t wish him to waken — ” A 
sob caught her voice. “Will you — shall we tiptoe 
through and down the stair? There’s food and 
wine — I’ll tell you — I’ll explain — O lud, sir, come 
softly — I’m nigh dead of terror 1” 

He nodded reassuringly, his eyes questing over 
her poor gown, her shining hair, her piteously trem- 
bling hands. 

A stertorous snore reached them as she pulled 
open the door, and shielding the light the gypsy 
halted for an instant beside the bed, gazing curi- 
ously down at the unlovely occupant. 

“Phew I” said he below his breath. “Barty 
Griggs, on my soul!” 


6o 


MY LADY APRIL 


‘‘You know him?’' whispered Dorothy. 

Merodach nodded again. 

They crept out, barefoot, and closing the door 
cautiously, Dorothy led the way to the dining room, 
where she cleared a space on the disordered table 
and chose wine and food. 

“To our better acquaintance!” said the gypsy, 
smiling above his glass. “Come, child, you must 
drink. You’re trembling with cold and I dare swear 
you’re bursting with curiosity.” 

She swept the hair out of her eyes with a dazed 
little gesture and drank obediently. “To our — bet- 
ter acquaintance,” said she. 

He caught the glass as it slid out of her nerveless 
fingers. “Is this cold or terror? What has 
frighted you so? Was it Barty? Lud, when he’s 
in liquor he’s harmless as a fish!” 

“I was asleep when he blundered into my room. 
Who is he? Why is — ” 

“I think ’tis probable he’s here on business,” 
ventured Merodach. “Must I explain? Child, he’s 
a bailiff.” 

For a moment Dorothy gave no sign that she 
understood. Then she sank into a chair and sat 
clutching the table-cloth, staring perplexedly at the 
man before her. “A — a bailiff?” echoed she. 
“W— what— ?” 

“In possession. Is your master in debt?” 

“My — my father was called away to London a 
week since, and to-night I came from the Rooms 
to find my mother gone and the house empty — ” 


THE PRIZE FIGHTER 


6i 


‘Tut for Barty Griggs?’^ 

“He must have been below-stairs/^ said she, con- 
sidering. “I daren’t search the basement. There 
are black beetles.” 

He nodded solemnly, and cutting up part of a 
cold chicken set it before her. “Eat, or you’ll be 
ill,” he said, and began his own meal with a good 
appetite. 

After a while : “You drink nothing,” said 
Dorothy. “An’t the wine to your taste?” 

“I’m in training,” he explained. “One glass, to 
drive out the chill of that garret, but no more. 
To-morrow I’m to meet Brooke. That’s why I was 
sandbagged and stripped and shut up out o’ the 
way. They’re afraid of me. They thought even 
if I got free I’d not go to the fight half-naked.” 
He laughed and showed her the muscles of his 
arms with a boyish exultation that was engaging. 
“Feel! I’m fit as a fiddle, and Brooke — well 
Brooke’s relying on his reputation. What, don’t 
you understand, child? I’m a prize fighter. Oh, 
’tis a great life, believe me!” 

“You fight — for money?” she hazarded. 

“Exactly.” 

Sitting there clad in his girt blanket he made a 
picturesque, strenuous figure, and unconsciously 
Dorothy compared him with the men she knew, to 
their detriment. He seemed serenely unaware of 
her peering eyes, perfectly indifferent as to the 
effect of his words upon her, unconscious of any- 
thing extraordinar}^ in the situation,. 


62 


MY LADY APRIL 


“The fire’s not out,” said he, stretching. “I’ll 
mend it and we can sit and talk in comfort until 
morning.” Without asking permission he busied 
himself about the hearth, raking out the dead ash, 
blowing red embers to a blaze, piling on dry wood 
that was stacked ready to hand until when the fire 
was roaring up the chimney he threw a couple of 
cushions upon the floor and beckoned the girl 
nearer. 

“Come toast your toes,” he invited, “and tell 
me your side o’ the story. You know mine.’^ 

“I don’t know your name,’^ began Dorothy. 

He laughed. “Who does? Men call me Mero- 
dach, and it serves as well as another. Merodach, 
the god of battle, the god of the morning light 
and the spring sun. Oh, ’tis a name takes some 
living up to, I assure you!” He sat down cross- 
legged and patted the other cushion with the air 
of a host at a wayside encampment, offering hos- 
pitality to a fellow traveler. In the dancing fire- 
light he looked a- very faun; an artless, friendly 
denizen of open spaces, content for the moment to 
rest beside a hearth, but ready to follow the wind’s 
will the instant he heard the call. 

The girl caught something of his friendliness and 
dropped beside him, stretching her fingers to the 
blaze; but in spite of his invitation she remained 
silent. 

At length: “This, if I mistake not, is Sir George 
Forrest’s house?” he began. 


THE PRIZE FIGHTER 


63 

^*Yes.’’ For an instant she turned her head and 
looked him in the eyes. “If you know so much, 
doubtless you know more. ’Tis common knowl- 
edge that my parents keep a faro table.” 

“Your parents!” 

“I am Dorothy Forrest. The town will tell you 
that I am a decoy,” she checked his half-uttered 
exclamation with a swift hand. “ ’Tis true. I go 
— as old Lady Kirkpatrick says at every oppor- 
tunity — I go a-hunting game for my mother’s table. 
’Tis her one witty speech. She delivered it with 
vast gravity to-night, but I’m persuaded that it 
made no impression — ” she broke off, glanced at 
him, decided that ’twas no secret, and added — 
“upon Mr. Ralph Carew.” 

Merodach lifted his head and regarded her 
thoughtfully. 

“You met — Mr. Ralph Carew?” 

“At the ball,” she admitted. 

“A new-comer?” 

“But just returned from two years’ travel.” 

“And he’s to come here to-morrow — to-night 
rather, to adventure his fortune?” 

“No,” said Dorothy softly. “I forbade him.” 

Merodach laughed. “O child I Han’t ye learned 
’tis the surest way to bring a man? Gad, ybu 
knew it!” 

“I was in earnest,” cried the girl. “I forbade 
him the house. He’ll not come. Oh, shame ! 
Y ou believe what they say of me ; he did not !” 


64 


MY LADY APRIL 


‘'I think of you as one more sinned against than 
sinning,” he began, and bit his lip with a covert 
glance at her. 

The words conveyed nothing to Dorothy, who 
read nothing worth remembering and remembered 
nothing that she read. 

The gypsy clasped his hands about his knees and 
gazed at the fire, relieved, albeit a little disappointed 
in her. “So your parents have left you in charge?” 
he suggested. 

“Faith, they’ve left me,” answered the girl with 
a little catch in her breath. “I searched every- 
where for a message, a letter — but there was noth- 
ing.” 

“Servants?” 

“My father’s man rode with him a week ago. 
My mother’s woman — sure, she’d take her — ” 

“She’s gone?” 

Dorothy nodded, groping amid a chaos of half- 
formed thoughts. 

“But a house this size needs other servants?” 

“They come in by the hour,” she explained. 
“There’s no room for them to sleep. The pastry- 
cook sends men to help with the supper. D’you 
think they could have ransacked the place? ’Tis 
so upset — Janet would never have left it so. O lud, 
I don’t know what to think!” 

“Will you let me search the house?” said Mero- 
dach. 

“If you wquIcL L was afraid, tg venture^ in the. 
kitchens.’^ 


THE PRIZE FIGHTER 


65 

He stood up, knotted the rope more tightly about 
his waist, stretched like a lithe animal, and pro' 
fessed himself ready. 

“D'you want a weapon?” faltered Dorothy. ‘‘A 
poker — ” 

He laughed and held out clenched fists. ^‘I go 
armed. Is it dark below-stairs ? Will you carry 
a light?” 

The pale beauty of a moonstone surrounded them 
as they came out into the hall: in the narrow win- 
dows the east was already faintly flushed: across 
the dew-gray meadows the placid Avon shone like 
silver, and a bird began chirking in the budding 
cherry orchards below the garden. 

Together they searched the hall, the morning 
room : descended to the basement to peer into coal- 
cellar and pantry: explored the deserted, echoing 
kitchens, but found no clue to the mystery. 

Merodach refused to go out into the area. ‘T 
must lie close till evening,” said he. ‘The match 
is at six. If you can find me clothing I’ll burst 
upon ’em at the eleventh hour, Adrastia turned 
male !” He laughed, meeting her blank stare. 
“ ’Twas play or pay, and a dozen fortunes 
lie in my hands. Brooke’s adherents look to 
win without a fight. I’ll be there to disappoint 
’em!” 

In Sir George’s room Dorothy opened the closet, 
hesitated, a finger at her lip, and then finding his 
eyes upon her smiled and stood back. 

“Sure, you’d best choose for yourself. My 


66 


MY LADY APRIL 


father’s clothes will be a thought small for you, 
but there’s no other — ” 

''His man?” suggested Merodach, glancing dis- 
paragingly at the array of silks and satins which 
Sir George had perforce left behind him in his 
flight. 

"O lud! Charles is a grasshopper beside you!” 
laughed Dorothy. "See, here’s a green riding coat 
would do, and there’s linen in this chest.” She 
left him and went into her mother’s room where 
she folded petticoats away, hung gowns in the cup- 
board and restored the place to some degree of 
order. Finally, having smoothed the bed and 
opened the windows, she turned to go and came 
face to face with Bartholomew Griggs, who leered 
at her and straightway lifted up his voice in song. 

" ^As I was a-walkin^ one mornin* in May, 

To view the green fields and the meadows so gay, 
I heard a fair damsel, so sweet did she sing, 

''Oh I will be married on a Tuesday mor-ning 
Ta rum ti de dum ti de — ’ ” 

He took a ponderous dancing step and winked with 
great cordiality. 

7 step-ped up to her an* thus did I say — ’’ 

Come, says I, han’t ye got a kiss for old Barty?” 
A dirty hand grabbed at her. 

"Keep your distance, fellow,” said Dorothy, and 


THE PRIZE FIGHTER 


67 

made to pass him: but the glance that would have 
annihilated Mr. Ralph Carew had no effect what- 
soever upon the bailiff. He gathered her to him 
and pursed thick lips. 

“Merodach!’' screamed Dorothy. 

In after life Bartholomew Griggs was wont to 
boast that he had received Merodach’s left under 
the ear, and lived to tell the tale. ‘‘Gosh!” he’d 
say, gazing round upon the circle of admirers. 
“Caught me here, see? Lifted me clean off me feet. 
Sent me spinning into a corner, an’ there I lay 
thinkin’ as how the roof had fallen in. Zoons, 
boys ! Merodach’s left, an’ he but six an’ twenty !” 

Merodach stood above him, buttoning a flowered 
waistcoat. “What, man!” said he, grinning. 
“Never look so scared. I might ha’ killed ye.” 

“Oons!” gasped Bartholomew, rubbing his jowl. 
“Merodach, as I’m a sinner!” He remained gap- 
ing at the gypsy until pride overcame the natural 
hostility a man feels toward one who has knocked 
him flying. Merodach thrust forth a hand and 
pulled him to his feet, and the bailiff pumped his 
arm up and down, stuttering with elation. 

“Sir, I’m proud to shake ye by the hand. Gad, 
I hope I carry a bruise! ’Twill be summat to boast 
on to my grandchildren. Sir, your very obleeged 
’umble servant. Eh, I saw ye fight in Broughton’s 
behind the Oxford Road, an’ a pretty sight ye 
made!” He leered across at Dorothy. “Poachin’, 
was I? Well, sir, ’twas unbeknownst, an’ I asks 
pardon — ” 


68 


MY LADY APRIL 


Merodach cut him short. “ Tis Miss Forrest, 
who’s saved my life and my reputation. I’ll tell 
you more as we get breakfast, the house is empty 
but for ourselves. Up, man, and forage!” With 
a reassuring nod to Dorothy he pushed the bailiff 
before him. The girl heard them descend to the 
kitchens, and leaning over the banister caught 
sounds of chopping wood and the rattle of thick 
crockery. 

Heartsick, desolate, she went back to her room 
and dressed in a peacock-blue gown which she par- 
ticularly detested: rolled up her hair with none of 
the fastidious pains she generally took, and glanc- 
ing at herself in the mirror, was curiously com- 
forted to find that she looked a perfect fright. She 
had forbidden Ralph Carew to come. Why should 
she dress for a gypsy prize-fighter and a horrible 
bailiff? Would they expect her to eat with them? 

She resolved not to breakfast, and met Merodach 
carrying a loaded tray at the head of the first stair. 

‘‘Where’ll you have it?” said he cheerily. 

“Thank you. I need nothing.” 

He glanced from her piled golden hair to the 
severe blue gown. “Faith, you look a madonna, 
but I’ll swear you’re flesh and blood. Come and 
eat, or I lose my labor.” 

Hot coffee, bread, butter, a boiled egg, honey — 
he set them all out upon the table and offered his 
wrist to lead her to a chair. Her fingers rested for 
an instant upon warm, smooth skin ; she found her- 


THE PRIZE FIGHTER 69 

self seated with a steaming cup at her side, before 
she realized exactly what had happened. 

Merodach pushed the salt cellar within reach and 
cut the top off her egg. She looked up, amazed 
at his attention. 

‘'Griggs’ll not trouble you,'' he told her coolly. 
‘I've to offer his apologies. 'Tis as I expected. 
He's here in possession, and — Lady Forrest has 
evidently made a bolt of it. Her woman drugged 
his supper ale." 

“It’s strange she left no message," faltered 
Dorothy, instinctively motioning him to the' chair 
beside her. With Sir George's clothes he seemed 
to have put on something of the manners of a gentle- 
man. 

“There's a smear of ash trodden into the carpet 
below my lady's table. I believe she did write and 
left you money, and her woman took it and burned 
the letter." 

“'Tis possible. But how — ?" 

“Two bits escaped the candle," he added, and 
laid them before her; diagonal strips of singed 
paper, each showing part of two lines in Lavinia's 
narrow writing. “. . . the week . . . wait there 
. . and “confidence in . . . Mrs. Bradley . , 
was decipherable. 

“Mrs. Bradley?" murmured Dorothy. “How 
odd!" 

“A — friend of yours?" hazarded Merodach^ 
watching her. 


70 


MY LADY APRIL 


‘Lud, no ! Fve seen her at the Rooms. I dis- 
like her extremely.” 

*'Has no one told you her — profession?” 

‘"Oh, yes. She used to keep a finishing school 
for the daughters of gentlemen. Even now one or 
two old pupils live with her. My mother evidently 
intends me to wait there until she can send.” Miss 
Forrest tried to fit the two scraps of paper together, 
failed, and shrugged. “Fd liefer go into a nunnery, 
but beggars can’t be choosers and Fve no means of 
hiring a post-chaise.” 

‘‘I can lend you — ” he burst out, and stopped. 

you win your fight?” said she. “Thank you, 
but I want no blood-money.” 

For an instant their eyes met, coldly blue challeng- 
ing keen, bright brown. Miss Forrest was the first 
to look away. 

“You — dislike prize fighting?” he said; and some- 
how she was aware that he would not utter the 
words that had leaped to his tongue. 

“O God !” cried the girl, and choked upon a sob. 
“I loathe all fighting. My whole life is full of 
nothing else. My parents wrangle over everything 
and nothing, and I with them. We fight for money 
night after night with cards and dice and wine for 
weapons. I, I fight my pride, my modesty, my 
self-respect, and folk think me brazen — O lud, one 
has to wear armor!” She bit a trembling lip and 
smiled at him wanly. “Now you think I rant. Oh 
yes, you do.” She shrugged and rose; he was on 
his feet instantly. “Well, one must live. I may 


THE PRIZE FIGHTER 


71 

come to the stage yet. I think I could play Ophelia, 
but Juliet — no.’' 

‘'Why not?” he asked absently, unaware that he 
was staring. 

“I know too much of men ever to fall in love with 
one of them, even in make-believe.” 

“You’ve gained that knowledge from the beaux 
you meet here and at the Rooms !” he cried. “Gad, 
my girl, be fair! You know but one type of man, 
and there are scores of others!” 

“True,” said Miss Forrest coldly. “Until last 
night I had spoke with none but gentlemen.” 

He found himself staring at the empty doorway, 
shook back his hair, grinned good-humoredly, and 
loading the tray carried it below. 

“Miss hath the megrims,” said he as the bailiff 
rose and jerked crumbs from the creases in his cloth- 
ing. “Wash up, Barty, while I get something to 
eat.” 

.“What! I thought ye broke fast above-stairs?” 
began Griggs. 

“I was not invited,” returned Merodach, and 
pouring the cold coffee into a skillet, set it among 
the embers to heat. 


CHAPTER VII 


LARRY CAVANAGH 


FTER another fruitless search Dorothy 



faced the unpleasant fact that she was 


I % penniless, but for the few shillings in her 
jewel box. Lady Forrest had taken all her personal 
valuables; Janet had appropriated as much as she 
could carry. Although Dorothy had never pos- 
sessed regular pin money she had never been with- 
out a guinea or two to spend, and Sir George was 
easy to wheedle if she wanted new clothes. Now* 
she realized that she might lack the absolute neces- 
sities of life, and the prospect dismayed her. 

Subdued, a little dazed, the girl wandered discon- 
solately about the house, aware that the bailiff’s eyes 
followed her from the shelter of the door jambs, but 
reassured by Merodach’s influence over the man. 

‘T has to see as ye takes nought away,” he ex- 
plained, meeting her on the landing as she came from 
her mother’s room. 

“There’s nothing of value that I could carry,” re- 
turned Dorothy wearily. She made to pass him 
but he remained planted in her path, blinking up at 
her with small, red-rimmed gray eyes. 

“I’m a soft-hearted customer, I am,” said Bar- 
tholomew, with what he fondly imagined to be an 


LARRY CAVANAGH 


73 


ingratiating smile. can’t abide to see beauty in 
distress. A morsel of advice now, missie ? Would 
it be took imperent, or would it be accepted of in the 
spirit as offered ?” 

Heartsick for a friend, Dorothy hesitated, and he 
caught at her irresolution. 

'‘If ye’d consent to a bit of palaver wi’ me an’ 
young Merodach, conclusions might be come to, 
d’ye see ? A plan’s what ye lack. Summat to work 
from. Trouble’s never such a bogey if looked at 
fair an’ square, an’ speakin’ strickly for meself, o’ 
course, it’s the things I can’t see I’m scart on.” 

"Thank you. You may tell Merodach I’ll speak 
with him,” said Miss Forrest, and descended to the 
dining-room divided between laughter and tears. 
The life she led, cut off from the companionship of 
girls of her own age, had tended to make her mor- 
bidly self-centered: she saw herself from outside, 
and was at the same time both actor and spectator 
of the scenes wherein she played a part. It was 
characteristic that now, with tears thick upon her 
lashes, she went over to the mirror above the hearth 
to note the effect. Her eyes were unbecomingly red. 
She swallowed hard, and found a seat back to the 
light. 

The two men discovered her at the head of the 
table, a pathetic little figure enthroned in a tall arm- 
chair, her fingers drumming nervously upon the 
polished board before her. 

"Barty tells me that you need advice,” began the 
gypsy, dropping into a chair at her right. 


74 


MY LADY APRIL 


She nodded and bit her trembling lower lip. '"I 
need more than advice. Pve seven shillings, and 
the clothes I wear. I — I suppose IVe no real right 
even to those.’' 

‘'No more ye han’t, missie,” said Griggs heartily. 
“Bein' as you might say of the female persuasion.” 

“But sure, you’ve friends in Bath?” suggested 
Merodach. 

Dorothy shook her head. “Not now. Miss 
Abrams is gone back to Scotland with her aunt. 
She was the only woman with whom I was — inti- 
mate — ” 

“Yet you must have met scores of people who — ” 

“Scores. But there’s not one I can call friend, 
unless — ” 

“Barrin’ we, missie. Me an’ Merodach!” insis- 
ted Griggs. 

“Thank you,” returned the girl, and smiled, April- 
fashion. 

The trio sat and stared at one another in silence. 

“How long shall I be allowed to stay here?” 
asked Dorothy at length. 

The bailiff puckered his mouth. “Well, there’s 
to be a sale, d’ye see ? In less’n a week there won’t 
be a stick in the place, ’s far as I know. But, 
speakin, strickly between friends, ye could stay here 
another couple o’ nights, mebbe, an’ then ye’d be well 
advised to flit, takin’ wi’ ye a small an’ inconspickus 
valise packed wi’ strickly personal — ” 

“Two nights?” pondered Dorothy. “I might run 
the tables for two nights. That should bring me in 


LARRY CAVANAGH 


75 


enough to hire a chaise and post to Winterbourne — 
to my cousin’s home in Sussex,” she added in an- 
swer to Merodach’s inquiring eyes. 

‘‘Thank you, friends. I’ll go out and order the 
supper — ” She broke off, confused, remembering 
that she could pay for nothing. 

“Well, your guests must be content with wine 
and cakes,” suggested Merodach. “You’ve flour 
and eggs in the house? There was enough left 
of last night’s fare to make a dozen pies and pud- 
dings.” 

“What, can you cook as well as fight?” asked 
Dorothy, staring. 

“Let me show you!” cried Merodach. 

They spent three hours in the kitchen among 
a litter of patty-pans and the collected debris of 
yesterday’s meals. Merodach in shirt sleeves, an 
apron protecting Sir George’s green cloth breeches : 
Dorothy flushed and merry, her rosy elbows pow- 
dered with flour : Bartholomew red- faced, perspiring 
from the oven, sucking his fingers surreptitiously. 
The place rang with the clatter of crockery and the 
beat of wooden spoons in batter. Merodach whis- 
tled above the pastry-board: Dorothy chattered as 
she cut up candied fruits, excited, almost hysterical, 
rapt out of her habitual apathy by this sudden 
change in her fortunes. 

Versed as she was in the ephemeral intrigues 
of Bath, it was a new and wonderful experience 
to look into a man’s eyes and find nothing but a 
frank kindliness. There was no longer any need 


MY LADY APRIL 


, 7 « 

for self-defense, for the quick parry and thrust of 
wit against will. She forgot that she was a girl 
and Memdach a man: she threw restraint and con- 
vention to the winds, and Merodach apparently 
had never known the necessity for either. 

They made such a merry din that a knocking at 
the front door failed to disturb them, but presently 
footsteps upon the basement stair startled them into 
silence. 

Dorothy glanced from Merodach to Bartholo- 
mew, but before she could speak the kitchen door 
swung open to admit Mr. Larry Cavanagh, chapeau 
hras beneath one arm, amber-headed cane a-dangle 
from a waistcoat button, a quizzing glass poised 
in long white fingers. 

‘'Good ged!’* said he, and stood transfixed with 
amazement. 

Dorothy was the first to recover composure, but 
something of her gay confidence fled with the ad- 
vent of the beau. 

“To what, sir, do I owe the honor of this in- 
trusion?’’ She sketched a curtsey, recognizing in 
Cavanagh an habitue of Lady Forrest’s tables. 

“Holy Saint Bridget!” murmured Larry. 

“Explain your presence here, sir, I beg,” insisted 
Miss Forrest, striving to appear dignified in bobbed 
skirts and an egg-splashed pinner. 

“Sure, I called to change the news. Didn’t ye 
hear me, an’ I hammerin’ at your knocker the way 
it’d rouse the Seven Sleepers themselves, an’ they 
snorin’ ?” 


LARRY CAVANAGH 


i77 


“But how did you get in?” 

“Faith, wasn’t the door on the latch? I heard 
voices, so down I came thinkin’ I’d find servants, 
an’ ask — ” He broke off. “What in the name 
of fortune are ye at ?” 

“Preparing supper,” returned Dorothy, with de- 
fiant calm. 

“Good ged!” gasped Cavanagh, and sank upon 
the settle. “Supper? Ye’ve enough there to feed 
a company of dragoons.” 

“We expect company,” she told him. “The 
rooms will be open to-night, as usual.” 

“But you — I was led to believe — ’tis put about 
that — ^that Lady Forrest has found it — convenient 
to go abroad ?” stammered the Irishman. “Rumor’s 
tearin’ round the parish with her tongue flappin’ 
like the mad dog’s o’ Killoon. As a — a friend, I — 
I took upon meself to contradict every blessed story, 
an’ come to discover was I perjurin’ me soul — ” 

“My mother was called away on urgent busi- 
ness last night,” began Dorothy, and tilted back her 
head to sniff. “O lud, something’s burning!” 

Further inquiries concerning Lavinia died upon 
the visitor’s lips as Griggs emerged from behind 
the settle and darted to the oven. 

“Good ged! Bartholomew the Grigg, as I’m a 
sinner! What, is it turned cook ye are, Barty, 
ye rogue?” 

“Yes, Mr. Cavanagh, sir,” stammered the bailiff, 
dropping a tray of steaming patties on the table 


MY LADY APRIL 


78 

and licking his burnt fingers. ‘‘Yes, sir. You gent- 
lemen do like your little joke. But, speakin’ strickly 
for meself, o’ course, Fm proud to do the scullery- 
maid, sir. What I says, yer honor, a man’s no 
man as won’t put out a helpin’ hand to beauty in 
distress, sir, an’ bein’ as how the servants — ” 

Mr. Cavanagh heaved himself upright and ad- 
vanced, white fingers extended. “Mr. Griggs,” said 
he solemnly. “Ye may be a bumbailey by profes- 
sion, but demme, nature intended ye for a gentle- 
man! Sure, ’tis proud I am to shake ye by the 
hand!” He shook so hard that Bartholomew 
winced. “Miss Forrest, your most humble, admir- 
ing servant to command. Your spirit, me dear, is 
amazin’! Good ged, in your place most women 
would be vaporish!” He gesticulated, as one about 
to deliver an epigram. 

'What tho* in Kaos all our hopes do lief 

We scorn to — er — to scorn — ^ahem. Oh demmit!” 

He scratched a square jaw, smiling whimsically 
at Dorothy. 

"From out the wreck Miss Forrest makes a pie!” 

Merodach, hitherto unobserved, lounged forward 
from the shadows of the big basement kitchen. 

“Good ged!” exploded Cavanagh, swinging round. 
“I should know that voice. Merodach ! What un- 
der the sun brings you here?” 


LARRY CAVANAGH 


79 

^‘I’m in hiding until to-night.” Merodach pro- 
ceeded to explain. 

‘‘Good ged! A door in a cupboard? Never! 
Merodach, ye’re romancin’!” 

“No, sir. These houses were built to accom- 
modate the Court of — a certain exalted person,” 
grinned Merodach. “To save much running to and 
fro, I am creditably informed that doors led from 
one house to the next. But — ’tis old history. 
Since when, ways of communication have been 
bricked up or otherwise covered over, and — ” 
His voice dropped. 

“Good ged! Sandbagged? What demned atroc- 
ity!” shouted Cavanagh. “The town shall know 
of this. I’ll have Brooke hissed off the stage.” 

“By your leave, I’d liefer knock him off !” laughed 
Merodach. “Harkee, Mr. Cavanagh sir.” They 
moved toward the door, the gypsy talking eagerly, 
the smile upon the other’s face widening with com- 
prehension. 

“Gad, I’m with ye, ye can count upon it. Mum? 
Zoons, I’m mum as a mackerel. Ye snuff, Mero- 
dach? May I have the honor?” The lid of a 
tortoise-shell box snapped open, and the ceremony 
over, Cavanagh turned again to Dorothy. “Ha’ ye 
been abroad yet. Miss Forrest? No? Then ye’ll 
not have heard the news. Behold me. Mercury, bell- 
man to the gods I Oyez — Oyez ! Though to be sure 
’tis too monstrous sad to make sport on’t.” He 
dropped his voice and his buffoonery. “Ye must 
know Sir Julian Carew died last evenin’ quite sud- 


8o 


MY LADY APRIL 


denly. A heart attack, so some say. That’s as 
maybe, he went out like a candle — phutt!” Larry 
glanced up and found the gypsy’s eyes upon him. 
“Sure, ’an isn’t it strange that death should shock 
us the way it does? A child comes into the world 
like a boat, an’ is launched upon an angry sea : and 
none winces to hear o’ that. But when the craft’s 
brought safe to harbor, why then we shudder an’ 
cry ^Horror !’ Such is the perversity of foolish hu- 
man nature. Well, Sir Julian was eighty, an’ if 
rumor don’t lie he’d had his fling!” He smiled, 
shrugged, and glanced from one to the other of his 
hearers. 

“So his nephew Valerius inherits?” murmured 
Dorothy, memories of last night crowding thick 
about her. “ ’Tis said Mr. Ralph was his uncle’s 
favorite.” 

“Ah now, there ye have me,” confessed Cavanagh, 
warming to his tale. “A mystery surrounds us, 
me dear creature. Bath is all agog. There’s lit- 
tle else talked of in the Pump-Room, and the cof- 
fee houses positively seethe with argument. Faith, 
an election’s nothing to it. But not to keep ye in 
suspense — Valerius Carew is suspected of — er^ — 
hastening dear nunkie’s end. For didn’t the serv- 
ant swear he heard Sir Julian speak of breakin’ 
the entail in Ralph’s favor, an’ wasn’t he taken 
instantaneous, the way he’d not time to do it ? Sure, 
Valerius inherits, but there’s a warrant out for his 
arrest on suspicion of murder, so — ” 

‘'Good God!” ejaculated Merodach, 


LARRY CAVANAGH 


8i 


Dorothy laughed. “Murder? Why, Valerius 
han’t the energy to kill a fly. I passed him in 
Spring Gardens one sunny morning last week, doz- 
ing upon a bench, with a link-boy hired to fan 
them off his nose ! I wonder he don’t keep a negro 
page. O lud, murder ? What fool issued the war- 
rant ?” 

“ Twas young Ralph applied for it. He’s vastly 
upset.” Mr. Cavanagh rocked from heel to toe, 
pondering. “Well, me dear, he’d sufficient cause. 
Wasn’t Valerius the last to see Sir Julian alive? 
Oh, I’ve positive information from the butler him- 
self. Valerius sent him below-stairs of an errand, 
and when he returned Sir Julian was dead and 
Valerius nowhere to be found. Deuced suspicious, 
an’t it, on me soul! Demme, as pretty a mystery 
as ever was writ to intrigue the patrons of circula- 
tin’ libraries!” 

“And have they arrested Valerius Carew?” asked 
the girl. “Will he be brought to trial on such a 
foolish charge as this?” 

“Good ged! How is it possible? Isn’t it tellin’ 
ye I am he’s disappeared!” exclaimed Larry impa- 
tiently. “It’s the most damning fact of all. Lodg- 
ing in Gay Street ransacked, landlady swears he’d 
not been home all night. Inquiries at all the tav- 
erns, none had set eyes on him. Spies haunting 
the Baths and ambushed in the Abbey the way an 
earwig couldn’t escape notice, an’ all to no purpose. 
Our gentleman has vanished. There’s some talk of 
a po’shay waitin’ under the big cedar on the London 


82 


MY LADY APRIL 


road, but I’m of the opinion that ’twas another affair 
altogether, in fact — ahem!” He floundered, glanced 
guiltily from the unconscious girl to the conscious 
men, and hastily changed the subject. ‘Well, posi- 
tively I must fly. Ye open at eight, me dear ? Good. 
I shall give meself the pleasure of cornin’, an’ if I fail 
to persuade all the bloods in Bath to follow, demme. 
I’m no Pied Piper ! Faith, we’ll make a night of it. 
At eight. Miss Dorothy, your very devoted. I kiss 
your little hands. Plucky child, ye deserve to suc- 
ceed. Barty, me cherub, adieu ! Merodach, we 
meet at six. Oh never fear, man, ’tis too good a 
joke to spoil. Adios! I protest, ’tis dumber than 
the grave I am. Good ged, to see Middleton’s face 
when you appear I Have ye clothes — a cloak ? Well 
then, till to-night. Miss Dorothy, your most obe- 
dient !” 

He bowed himself out, Griggs followed to see him 
to the door. Merodach and Dorothy stood among 
the litter of preparation in an uneasy silence. The 
care-free gayety of the morning did not return. 

“Is Valerius Carew known to you?” asked Mero- 
dach at length. 

Dorothy shook her head. “Only by sight. He 
don’t attend the Assemblies. The town talks, but 
’tis all conjecture.” 

“What’s said?” 

“O lud, the usual gossip! Mr. Carew’s an enigma, 
and lays himself open to misconception, so ’tis 
his own fault if he’s suspect.” Dorothy shrugged, 
world-weary. “If nothing’s positively known you 


LARRY CAVANAGH 


83 

may depend upon't Bath will believe the worst.” 

“You’re bitter,” said Merodach, absently piling 
up the empty patty-pans. 

“O la, yes! I’m suspect, too. A grain of truth 
in the town talk is enough to give rise to a batch 
of lies.” 

“Lake the yeast in the parable,” suggested Mero- 
dach. 

“I’ve not heard if it.” 

“ . . . ‘which a woman took and hid in three 
measures of meal until the whole was leavened’ . . .” 
quoted the gypsy soberly, his eyes upon her. 

Miss Forrest shrugged. “Faith, you sound like 
the Abbey on a Sunday. Well, we must clear up, 
I suppose. That’s the worst of cooking — washing 
up. Shall we dine here? ’Twill save trouble. 
There’s pickled herrings in the larder and half a 
lumber pie. Push everything to one end of the 
table while I go wash my hands.” 

True to his promise Mr. Cavanagh arrived soon 
after eight accompanied by a dozen young fellows 
all boisterously exhilarated. 

Dorothy, sedate in a gray silk at the head of the 
stair, was swept into the card-rooms in the whirl 
of excitement; deafened by the shouts and laughter, 
bewildered, a little disconcerted. She had intended 
to preside at the tables with studied dignity, but 
there was small chance of that among these mercu- 
rial gallants. They capered round the chairs; they 
clamored for wine, and when she brought it they 


84 


MY LADY APRIL 


drank to Merodach until the lusters upon the cande- 
labra rang against each other. 

For the moment cards were neglected. They 
could talk of nothing but the big fight. New ar- 
rivals bawled for details, and the tumult subsided 
while Sir Harry Kirkpatrick, gesticulating from the 
back of an arm-chair as from a pulpit, told the 
story. 

Crushed into a corner behind the tables Dorothy 
listened, comprehending nothing of the boxing slang 
of the day, but realizing that Merodach had won a 
brilliant victory. Her pulses quickened at the re- 
membrance of her part in his escape. 

/‘But, Harry, demmit, ye’ve started the tale in the 
middle !” shouted Cavanagh. “Han’t ye forgot the 
rumor of foul play, an’ we waitin’ there the way 
we’d be nearly mad with the agonizin’ suspense, 
an’ every man of us stakin’ his last groat on Mero- 
dach, an’ he not cornin’ ! Han’t ye forgot the cer- 
tainty of ruin, an’ Brooke’s supporters shoutin’ 
‘Play or pay!’ an’ we feelin’ as sick as the Wise 
Men o’ Goshen with the green water lippin’ round 
the edge o’ the bowl ! An’ then the magnificent rev- 
elation of our Champion in the nick of time, risin’ 
out o’ the back benches like Venus from the sea, 
an’ hingin’ off his cloak an’ pitchin’ his hat over 
the rope! The overwhelmin’ relief, the — ” 

“O lud, Larry, damn your rhetoric !” cried young 
Revell. “ ’Twas like this — now listen to a plain 
tale! We waited kicking our heels in Brooke’s 
rooms until close upon the hour, when — ” 


LARRY CAVANAGH 


85 

“Merodach !” hiccoughed Captain Godfrey, 
sprinkling the company with a flourished glass. 
‘'Merodach — flower o' British sport ! Demme, 
boys, gi’ a rouse! Merodach I" 

Mr. Cavanagh’s voice cracked with his determina- 
tion to be heard above the din. ‘'But harkee, gen- 
tlemen, there was foul play! Hired ruffians sand- 
bagged him, stripped him, trussed him like a bird 
for the spit and shut him in a cupboard. And there 
he might have stayed but for — " 

“What? You’re drunk, Cavanagh!” 

“What authority ha’ ye for that tale? I tell 
you — ” 

“Authority?” vociferated Larry. “Wasn’t it Me- 
rodach himself told me? An’ yonder stands the 
nymph to whom he owes his release, demme, I might 
say his life and his reputation, for she — ” 

“Rat me! The little Forrest?” 

“Doll, the decoy-duck? Never!” 

“Bravo! Have her out!” 

Dorothy found herself tossed up on to a table, and 
flushed, panting, a little dishevelled, faced the com- 
pany, her hands pressed against her throbbing heart. 

Glasses were raised and drained in her honor. 
Her name was shouted amid approving cheers. She 
could do nothing but stand smiling, waiting, until 
the uproar abated. 

“She speaks!” cried young Revell, and clapped 
his hand over his neighbor’s mouth. 

“Silence! The Forrest makes reply!” 

“Gentlemen,” said Dorothy through dry lips. 


86 


MY LADY APRIL 


‘'Gentlemen, for your kind approval, my thanks, 
but — I beg you — make less noise or the watch will 
bid me close the rooms, and faith, I — I must enter- 
tain to-night. Gentlemen, I — I know not what tales 
you have heard, but — but the truth is — my parents 
are from home and I needs must keep open house 
these two nights. So I pray you — will you — 
play-—?" 

She faltered, swayed, and passed her hands over 
her eyes; giddy with the sea of moving faces all 
turned in her direction, stifled by the heat that beat 
upon her from the candelabrum at her shoulder. 

Late comers, craning their necks, a tip-toe on the 
landing, were aware of a sudden silence, the crash 
of a chair overthrown as a man sprang to catch the 
girl. 

Then, “She’s fainted. Open a window." 

Cavanagh carried her up to her mother’s room, 
laid her on the bed and tugged at the bell-rope. 
There was no response, although, leaning over the 
well of the stair he could hear the far tinkle of 
china in the basement. He waited, fuming at the 
delay; and presently ran downstairs, prepared to 
tongue-lash the tardy servants. 

The bailiff, lounging over his supper in the kit- 
chen, stared at the sudden apparition. 

“Where the divil is the servant !’’ demanded 
Larry. 

Bartholomew swallowed, stared, and swallowed 
again; that being at the moment all he was capable 
of doing. 


LARRY CAVANAGH 87 

‘Where’s the woman, what’s her name — Jane — 
Janet? Miss Forrest’s fainting — ” 

“There ain’t nobody here but me,” replied Griggs. 
“Yon’s the vinegar in that black — ” 

“Good ged! Where are the servants?” 

“Didn’t the young lady tell ye? Lady Forrest 
skedaddled last night, an’ her woman ain’t to be 
found, neither. Drugged me supper ale, she did, 
the vixen, an' when I woke me mouth was like the 
bottom of a empty dustbin. There’s none here 
savin’ the young lady an’ me. An’ how did the 
fight go, yer honor?” 

“Oh, Brooke was beat, counted out in the tenth 
round,” said Cavanagh absently. “An’ now 
the question is, what’s to become o’ Miss For- 
rest?” 

“Merodach won, did he? Ecod, she saved him 
for it, an’ put ten pun in my pocket !” chuckled the 
bailiff. “An’ rat me! half o’ that she shall have, 
bless her! I’d laid more’n I could well afford on 
young Merodach, but thanks be to missie, he come 
out on top !” He reached his hat from a bacon hook 
in the rafters, and placing it upside down upon the 
table, solemnly pulled out a dirty knitted purse 
and counted the contents. 

“Three pun ten. That’ll be summat to be goin’ 
on with, an’ I shall get my winnin’s termorrer. 
Speakin’ strictly for meself, o’ course, what I says 
is, she saved the fight, an’ bein’ now penniless, pore 
dear, half my winnin’s she shall have, so — ” 

“Penniless?” gasped Cavanagh. 


88 


MY LADY APRIL 


Griggs put the situation before him in language 
too forcible to print. 

Cavanagh listened in amazement; consigned La- 
vinia to perdition; threw a curse or two after Sir 
George ; and seizing the protesting bailiff by the el- 
bow, rushed him upstairs. 

Play was in full swing, but Cavanagh’s sudden 
entrance arm in arm with Bartholomew, brought 
it to a pause. 

^What now, Larry ?’^ 

‘Who’s your friend?” 

“Demme, a bum I What the devil d’ye bring him 
here — ?” 

“Lud, Cavanagh, have some decency!” 

“ ’Twill be my painful duty to report this distress- 
ing lapse to Nash!” 

“Gentlemen! I’m askin’ ye as a favor to let this 
— gentleman have a word wi’ ye!” Something in 
his tone silenced them. They sat, twisted round in 
their chairs, leaning over the tables, half-risen, fro- 
zen into immobility by the unusual spectacle of the 
fastidious Irishman cheek by jowl with Bartholo- 
mew Griggs. The sudden production of Medusa’s 
head would have caused no greater sensation. 

A dull color rose behind the bailiff’s stubble of 
beard. He turned his hat nervously, and the money 
clinked. 

“Begging, by the lord!” muttered young Revell. 

Griggs looked up. “Ay, sir,” said he. “I do 
make so bold as to pass the hat, egged on by his 
honor Mr. Cavanagh, so to speak — ” 


LARRY CAVANAGH 


89 

‘^Faith, no!’^ shouted Larry. ‘Wasn’t it his own 
idea, an’ he puttin’ in the half of his winings to 
start it? Gentlemen, I’ll give ye a toast. Barty 
Griggs! God bless him for a warm-hearted old 
divil I” He drank, tossed his purse into the hat, and 
snatching it thrust it under Captain Godfrey’s nose. 

“W-what the dooce are ye about?” sputtered the 
soldier, wincing from the greasy head-gear. 

“Han’t I explained ’tis for Miss Forrest, the an- 
gel, an’ she deserted by her blackguardly parents, 
foul fall ’em! A guinea. Captain dear? Good ged, 
will ye be shamed by little Barty? Boys, I tell ye 
there’d ha’ been no fight at all but for Miss Forrest, 
an’ where should we ha’ been, an’ we backing Mero- 
dach to our last crown?” With a running fire of 
banter and cajolery he went round the tables, shak- 
ing B arty’s disreputable hat until it grew too heavy 
to shake. For having grasped the fact that Dorothy 
was destitute, the men gave heartily, and there was 
no more talk of play that night, principally because 
many had emptied their pockets. 

“Gentlemen,” said Cavanagh, nursing the bulging 
hat in both hands and gulping a little. “On behalf 
of Miss Forrest I thank ye exceedingly, and for the 
sake of Miss Forrest I’ll be askin’ ye to leave dis- 
creetly an’ for the last time. Faith, Revell, don’t 
ye see that we’ll be doin’ the child a kindness by 
keepin’ away? She’ll be postin’ off to her aunt’s 
to-morrow. I have the honor, gentlemen, to de- 
clare these rooms closed. Good night.” 

Laughing, cheering, slapping the bailiff on the 


90 


MY LADY APRIL 


back, they left in twos and threes, until at length 
Mr. Cavanagh was solitary among the card-strewn 
tables. 

He scratched his chin reflectively, staring at the 
money. 

*‘An’ will ye tell me how the divil I’ll be givin’ 
it to her?” said he. ‘‘Good ged, what if she’s an- 
gry? Deuced delicate job, on me soul!” He tip- 
toed to the door and listened, suddenly terrified 
lest Dorothy should catch him there and demand 
an explanation. There was no sound above-stairs : 
below, Griggs was closing the door behind the last 
of the guests. 

Cavanagh found some snuffers upon the chimney- 
shelf, extinguished the candles, emptied the bailiff’s 
hat upon the middle table, and carrying it by the 
brim, crept down to the hall. 

Bartholomew met him as he reached the foot of 
the stair, and for a moment there was a supremely 
uncomfortable silence. 

''Your hat, Griggs,” said Larry at length. "Can 
you find mine?” The bailiff brought it from 
the morning-room? "Thank’ee.” Mr. Cavanagh 
swung himself into his cloak, took hat and stick and 
turned toward the door. "Er — I’ve left the — the 
money on the table,” said he a little sheepishly. 
"No doubt Miss Forrest’ll think ’tis her winnings. 
Tell her Mrs. D’Este was acting banker. No need 
to be sayin’ more, eh, Barty? She’ll be asleep. 
Shut the door softly, ye rascal. Good night.” 


CHAPTER VIII 


TRADEGY IN THE AIR 





R. CAVANAGH, sir/^ said Harris with 
an apologetic cough, ‘‘shall I admit 
him?’ 


Young Carew turned from his uncle’s desk to 
glance inquiringly at the servant. ‘T don’t know 
him, Harris, but then I’m still a stranger in Bath. 
Was he a friend of Sir Julian? Should I see him?” 

“Well, since you ask, sir, yes, I would advise it. 
Mr. Cavanagh goes everywhere and knows every- 
one. And in the matter of — ahem — of the search, 
Mr. Ralph, he might be useful.” 

“Gad, he might ! Beg him to walk in, and Har- 
ris — sherry.” 

Mr. Cavanagh, somber in purple cloth, bowed to 
Mr. Carew, melancholic in black satin. The Irish- 
man’s quick eye appraised the fashion of the coat 
and the embroidery of cut steel beads. 

“Faith, parting is such sweet sorrow !” he mused, 
and commented aloud upon the engaging qualities 
of the deceased. 

Ralph conducted becomingly: spoke in hushed 
tones of Sir Julian: poured wine, and used a black- 
edged kerchief to wipe his lips. 

91 


92 


MY LADY APRIL 


Compliments over, the two men relaxed a little 
and eyed one another across the decanter. 

“Sure, ye have a look of Sir Julian about ye,’’ 
said Larry, glancing from his host to the portrait 
above the hearth. 

“A family resemblance, no doubt,” responded 
Ralph. “I’m happy to be thought like him. He 
was a second father to me.” 

Mr. Cavanagh opened his mouth, reflected, and 
closed it again without speaking. 

“I’m an orphan,” added young Carew. “And an 
only child. Sir Julian was everything — ” 

“Faith, a sad loss!” ejaculated Cavanagh to cover 
the other’s emotion; and floundering between cour- 
tesy and amusement, became platitudinous. “Well, 
’tis the common lot. Old men die. Young men 
come into their own. But ’tis a week now since 
the funeral and here ye remain, mewed up — Oh, 
I make no doubt ye’ve lashin’s of business,” he 
glanced at the rummaged desk. “But for your own 
sake, Carew, ye should go about. I’d not be urgin’ 
ye to attend the Rooms, but a canter before break- 
fast along Coombe Down? Sure, ’twould be no 
disrespect to the old gentleman, he was ever one for 
pleasure. An’ if ye care for company, why. I’ll 
be happy to join ye.” 

“You’re very kind, Mr. Cavanagh. Later on. I’ll 
take advantage — ” 

“Oh come, sir, to-morrow — ” 

“Gad, sir, I hate to appear discourteous, but — this 
odious affair has hipped me. I’ll confess, and I — ” 


TRAGEDY IN THE AIR 


93 


'^Good ged, my dear fellow, I take you! Dem- 
med awkward. But none can think the worse of 
you because — ” he shrugged and broke off. 

“You know Valerius?’' asked Carew, a shade too 
eagerly. 

Cavanagh threw out expressive hands. “As much 
as most. A queer fish, believe me. Ye’ve not 
met ?” 

“Yes. I met him here, that night. In fact I 
left him with Sir Julian. Tell me, sir, what d’ye 
make of it? I’ve gone over every detail until my 
head whirls.” 

“Faith, I’ve heard nought but gossip,” responded 
the Irishman cautiously; and composed himself to 
listen to a personal narrative. 

As Ralph ended : “So ye made the acquaintance 
of Miss Dorothy Forrest?” said he. 

“I named no names!” cried Carew. 

“Good ged, ’tis no secret. Didn’t the child her- 
self tell me ye saved her life.” 

“You know her?” 

“O lud, I’m a friend o’ the family.” 

“Really!” 

Mr. Cavanagh ignored Ralph’s lifted eyebrows. 
“Ye’ve heard nothing of the Forrests?” 

“Nothing but gossip,” countered Ralph, smiling. 

“They’ve left.” 

“Left?” 

“Left the town, left England, for all I know — 
and left Dolly.’^ Cavanagh outlined events, watch- 
ing young Carew’s changing face. 


94 MY LADY APRIL 

‘‘Good God!’' cried Ralph. “What inhuman 
brutes 1” 

“The child was penniless, friendless, but she has 
the divil’s own pluck. Will ye believe me, Carew, 
she vowed she’d run the tables and win enough to 
take her down to Sussex, an’ she with no more real 
knowledge of faro than a kitten playing with dead 
leaves.” 

“But she told me ’twas true she was a decoy.” 

“Zoons, man! What’s that? She did no more 
than smile an’ speak pretty, bless her! She never 
took a hand in the game. Lud save her, she don’t 
know enough to win. She’d no notion her parents 
were sharpers.” 

“You amaze me, sir!” cried young Carew in- 
credulously. 

“Good ged, an’ isn’t that what I’m after?” shouted 
Larry. “The child’s needin’ a friend, demme, a 
lover! I’m too old for her, but you — ^you caught 
her fancy. Oh, ’twas plain from what she didn’t 
say. She’ll trust ye. A young man ridin’ over 
the top o’ the hill — that’s what a girl’s lookin’ for 
from the time she can toddle, an’ ye — ” 

“But she forbid me the house,” began Ralph, 
dazed by the other’s vehemence. 

“Oh, the divil fly away wi’ ye for a fool! Of 
course she did. She’d not be havin’ ye ruined by 
her Jezebel of a mother. But I’m persuaded the 
child’s waitin’ for ye to appear an’ save her, an’ 
faith, here ye sit like an old biddy, an’ she broody!” 

“Od rot you, sir, you must believe me when I 


TRAGEDY IN THE AIR 


95 


tell you that I knew nothing of all this! Sir Ju- 
lian died while I was at the Rooms, and then I 
was compelled to post to London to see his lawyers. 
And since I returned — what with the funeral and 
this suspicion hanging over Valerius — ” He broke 
off and paced the length of the room and back. 
“Where is — Miss Forrest?” 

“Faith, an’ isn’t that what I want to know?” an- 
swered Cavanagh. 

“You don’t tell me she’s vanished?” cried Ralph. 

“She has, an’ ’tis drivin’ me distracted — ” 

“But why d’ye come to me?” 

“Good ged, you were my last hope I” Cavanagh 
strode to the window and stared across the street 
where a litter of straw and torn paper before the 
Forrest house remained as evidence of the sale. 

Aware of tragedy in the air, young Carew fol- 
lowed him. 

“Is that the house?” said he. “I never knew. 
She wouldn’t tell me where she lived.” Curtain- 
less, dusty windows stared at him like the unseeing 
eyes of a blind man. “Gad, I’ve been so rapt in 
my own trouble I heeded nothing that was going 
on outside. Cavanagh, if you’ll tell me how I can 
help — ?” 

The Irishman gulped. “We — we — demme, why 
should I be ashamed on’t? We collected enough 
money to take her down to Winterbourne, to her 
cousin’s home. The po’shay was hired, her bag- 
gage ready. The bailiff took himself out o’ the way 
while she came downstairs. An’ then, at the very 


MY LADY APRIL 


96 

threshold, a girl met her. They stood talkin’ for 
the space of a minute, an’ then what does Miss 
Dolly do but pack her into the shay an’ they drove 
off together. So much Barty saw from the area 
window. But she never went to Winterbourne, 
for the postilion w^s back in Bath next day. He’ll 
say nothing. She made him promise to hold his 
tongue. O lud, if he’d not been the man he is I’d 
suspect him of murderin’ the child for the money 
she carried. But I’d trust old Jake with Potiphar’s 
wife herself, an’ she clothed in jewels.” 

Young Carew listened, and thrilled again at the 
memory of Dorothy in the glow of the chandelier; 
in the gloom of the anteroom. Her hair had smelled 
vaguely of flowers — violets — he knew not what. It 
went to his head a little. 

“I’ll ride with you to-morrow, Cavanagh,” said 
he. “If the chaise was back next day she can’t have 
gone far. Where d’ye keep your nags ? The Three 
Tuns? I’ll meet you in the yard at seven.” 

But though they rode out day after day they 
gained no tidings of Dorothy Forrest. 


CHAPTER IX 


SPIDER AND FLY 

T he explanation was simple enough, as most 
explanations are, once they are explained. 
As Dorothy crossed the flagged footpath 
to her chaise, a girl touched her on the arm. 

“Miss Forrest?” 

“Yes?” Dorothy turned and met the gaze of a 
pair of black eyes swimming with tears. 

“I — Lady Forrest employed me as sempstress, and 
they say she has gone away — and she — she owes me 
an hundred and thirty pounds. Oh, Eve the ac- 
counts writ out. ’Tis true, ma’am. Fve had noth- 
ing but promises these two years, and now I — ” 
“Are you in Mrs. Deykin’s employ?” began Doro- 
thy, her hand upon the (chaise dbor. “Wait a 
moment, Jake. I must speak with this woman.” 

“No, ma’am. I work at home — embroidery — 
fine sewing — ” The poor creature was fluttering 
with anxiety. 

“Beg pardon, miss,” urged the grizzled postilion, 
touching his cap. “ ’Tain’t wise to linger. Mr. 
Cavanagh said the quicker we was out o’ the town, 
the better.” 

“Then get in, ma’am,” said Dorothy. “I’ll drive 
97 


98 


MY LADY APRIL 


you home and we can talk as we go.’* But it was 
the young sempstress who did most of the talking. 

Dorothy sat silent, horror-struck, her heart cold 
within her ; wavering between incredulity and tears ; 
unwilling to believe that her mother could have 
been so callous, so dishonest. 

She leaned out of the window to give the postilion 
a direction, and presently the man drew up at the 
entrance to an alley, dank with drippings from the 
eaves, dark even at midday, and lighted only by 
a feeble oil-lamp at one end. 

“Wait, Jake,'’ said Dorothy, and picking her way 
over the cobbles, followed the girl. 

There was no food in the little house: no fire. 
A genial, childish old man sat huddled in a blanket 
beside the empty hearth, cutting paper dolls from a 
news sheet. Before him, round-eyed and breathless 
with delight, knelt a three-year-old girl, receiving 
each completed doll in cupped palms, kissing it, 
naming it with a solemnity befitting the occasion. 

“This one’ll be Agafa. Agafa, sit here nex’ Jose- 
phine, an’ nen you can talk. Cawoline’ll go wound 
corner, so. Henwietta — oh, Gwandaddy, here’s 
Jean!” 

The sempstress stooped to lift her, and shoulder- 
high the little creature surveyed Dorothy with 
friendly, starry eyes. 

“A waif,” said Jean below her breath, and aloud, 
“Well, Celia, did you take care of Grandad?” 

A solemn nod. “But Gwandaddy’s fingers too 
cold to cut out soldiers, so dey’s all dollies,” said 


SPIDER AND FLY 


99 

the child, and thrust her own mottled hands beneath 
Jean's shawl. 

Something took Dorothy by the throat. For a 
brief instant she wavered: Winterbourne, cradled 
in the bosom of the Weald, beckoned her: there 
would be violets now in Folly Lane: she could 
almost smell the faint incense of thyme and hot 
turf upon the sunny Downs. And even now she 
was on her way. 

“If you’ll let me see your account, ma’am?” she 
faltered. 

Wondering, Jean set the child down and opened 
the door of a tiny kitchen, bare, piteously neat. 

Dorothy dropped into the only chair, her heart 
hammering at her side, staring uncomprehendingly 
at the papers Jean set before her. The narrow writ- 
ing danced under her eyes. 

“. . . a dozen night-rails. Two tucked pinners 
and four plain. A spotted muslin wrapper. A 
muslin gown curiously embroidered with butter- 
flies. . . .” 

Underlinen of her own was there, half worn out 
now, but still unpaid for : embroidered stockings : 
cravats for Sir George. Lady Forrest had ordered 
lavishly, and never troubled to inquire after miss- 
ing garments. Janet had doubtless taken what she 
fancied for her own use. A hundred and thirty 
pounds — 

Dorothy awoke to the fact that the girl was speak- 
ing. 

“I wouldn’t have troubled you, ma’am, but to- 


100 


MY LADY APRIL 


morrow our landlord comes for the rent. Tis long 
overdue, and he has been — ^tolerant — She choked. 
“I had to come to you, ma'm, because Fve nothing 
left to sell, and I must keep a roof over our heads 
for Grandad’s sake, and Celia’s.” 

Slowly from beneath her petticoats Dorothy 
pulled a hanging pocket; slowly she opened it and 
drew out a leathern purse heavy with money. Shiv- 
ering, she poured it all upon the table, and for an 
instant sat gazing at it dry-eyed, breathless. 

It meant so much to her. 

There was a pregnant silence: then from the 
other room came the rippling music of the child’s 
laugh, the chuckle of the old man, and out of that 
heap of gold and silver Dorothy counted seven 
shillings, and slipped them back into the purse. 

'T — I’ve no real right even to this,” said she. 
^‘My — my parents are heavily in debt. So much 
the — ^the bailiff told me.” She swept the money to- 
gether deliberately and looked up at the pale face 
above her. “Will you take this? And when I can 
I’ll send the remainder. And will you forgive me 
that you waited so long? My sole excuse is, that 
I did not know.” She arose, frightened now that 
the die was cast ; and leaving Jean sobbing upon the 
table, went out and shut the door behind her. 

Celia looked up. “A new dolly,” said she. 
“Gwandaddy’s done you! Look! What can I call 
her? What’s your name?” 

“Dolly,” said Miss Forrest. “Will you call her 
after me? Just Dolly?” 


SPIDER AND FLY 


101 


‘‘Jus’-Dolly? (Funny name!) Jus’-Dolly, sit 
here by Mawia an’ Susan can squeege up a bit — ” 
Her voice indicated the exact amount of squeezing 
necessary. She lay prone upon the floor, chin prop- 
ped on one chubby fist, her free hand rearranging the 
circle of dolls. 

Dorothy nodded to the ancient beside the hearth 
and left the little house with seven shillings in her 
pocket. 

‘‘I’ve changed my plans, Jake,'' said she, as the 
old fellow opened the chaise door for her. “I can’t 
go to Winterbourne after all. Will you take me 
back to the London road? I'm lost in these al- 
leys." 

Expostulation was vain. Jake drove her to within 
a stone's throw of her old home, and there much 
against his will he left her, valise in hand, waiting 
in the shadow of the houses until the road should 
be empty. 

Thus it came about that as dusk rose from the 
earth, cloaking the valley and the town while yet 
the sunlit trees upon Beechen Cliff glowed vivid 
green, Dorothy knocked at the door in the wall that 
enclosed Mrs. Bradley's gardens. 

She disliked extremely the idea of being under 
an obligation to the woman, but she believed that 
Lady Forrest expected her to wait there until she 
could join her, and Winterbourne being now out 
of the question, she had no alternative. 

She glanced up at the stone gateway, patched with 
green moss and orange lichens, somber in the half- 


102 


MY LADY APRIL 


light; and for an instant she was on the point of 
retreat. Then slip-shod feet came shuffling over 
flags, and the girl picked up her bag and stood wait- 
ing, outwardly composed, although every pulse in 
her body was beating a vague alarm. 

The weather-stained door shook as a bolt was 
withdrawn; a key clacked in the lock; the door was 
opened a cautious crack; and a hideous, swarthy 
face peered out at her in silence. 

‘Ts Mrs. Bradley within?” asked Dorothy, in as 
cool a voice as she could muster. 

A nod was her only reply. 

‘T would speak with her, if you please.” 

The bodyless face still gazed at her round the 
edge of the door in an uncanny silence. The round 
eyes opened a little wider, the jaw dropped. 

‘T’ve a message from Lady Forrest,” urged Dor- 
othy desperately. A man was coming along the 
road and she wished to enter unseen. She pushed 
the door with her shoulder and as the negress gave 
back Dorothy slipped inside, to find herself at the 
head of a little flight of steps that led into a square 
court laid out in flower plots. The house sur- 
rounded her on two sides, on the other a formal 
garden was enclosed by the boundary wall. 

Having locked and bolted the door the black por- 
tress shambled down the steps and along the path to 
the porch; and here to Dorothy’s astonishment she 
faced about and picking up a lantern, lifted it to 
the level of her eyes and stared at the girl for a long 
moment. 


SPIDER AND FLY 


103 


From somewhere within the house came the shrill 
yelp of a kicked dog: a door banged noisily: foot- 
steps padded along a carpeted landing and came 
softly, heavily down the stair. 

The portress made an imperative gesture for si- 
lence, hid her lantern beneath a bench, pulled the 
inner door almost shut and with a hand upon 
Dorothy’s arm, crouched motionless in the 
porch. 

From where she stood the girl caught a glimpse of 
the square hall lit only by a wood fire; shutters 
were closed over the narrow windows; among the 
dark masses of furniture brass handles and candle- 
sticks caught the light and peered out at her like 
evil red eyes. 

An amorphous, unwieldy body lumbered across 
the room and was lost in the shadows of the stair 
that led down to the kitchens. 

The negress gave a queer gasp of relief and push- 
ing Dorothy out into the court, made urgent, vehe- 
ment gestures of dismissal, grotesque, vaguely hor- 
rible. 

Dismayed, bewildered, Dorothy hesitated, protest- 
ing. 

Night was upon them. From somewhere near 
an owl hooted like a jeering goblin: bats flickered 
about the eaves of the old house. It was impossible 
to walk back to Bath at that hour. 

must see Mrs. Bradley,” pleaded the girl. 

’Tis urgent. Let me in, I — ” 

The porch door swung open: a softly purring 


104 


MY LADY APRIL 


voice broke in upon the one-sided controversy, for 
all this while the negress had not spoken. 

''Who wishes to see Mrs. Bradley? Come within. 
Keren-happuch, what are you about 

The portress dropped her arms to her sides with a 
helpless gesture, stooped for Dorothy’s valise, and 
led the way indoors. 

"Bring lights to the oak room,” said Mrs. Brad- 
ley. "Madam, at your convenience.” She stood 
aside at the door and Dorothy hurried by her, much 
as she would have shrunk past a fat black spider. 

Having set candles upon a table Keren-happuch 
slippered away and Mrs. Bradley, grunting a little, 
lowered herself on to a settee, peering at the girl 
who stood, wavering, before she found a chair. 

"I believe, ma’am, I have had the pleasure of see- 
ing you dance at the Rooms?” began Mrs. Brad- 
ley comfortably. "Miss Forrest, an’t it? Ah, I 
thought so. I never forget a face, and yours, my 
dear, is remarkable. Would you take off your hat? 
Such coloring! Your own hair? Ah, remarkable. 
Well, and so your parents have gone abroad and for 
the present you are without a home. What more 
natural than that you should come to me? Quite 
so. Doubtless your dear mother suggested it?” 

"I’m persuaded she did leave a letter, ma’am, but 
somehow ’twas burned,” answered Dorothy, sur- 
prised by the other’s apparent knowledge of events. 
"We — I found your name upon a fragment, and 
'wait there’ upon another, and so I — I came, al- 
though — ” 


SPIDER AND FLY 


105 


‘^Very wise/' purred Mrs. Bradley, folding fat 
hands upon her lap. ‘‘Most sensible. And you 
have your luggage.” Her small black eyes peered 
at the valise, and Dorothy had the sudden, absurd 
idea that she could see the contents through the 
leather. “Just personal effects. Quite so. We 
live retired, my dear. Almost a nunnery.” Mrs. 
Bradley’s shortness of breath made her sentences 
jerk out like wind from a bellows. “Yes. You’ll 
need but few fallals. Now, if you’d be so good as 
to pull that bell-rope? I’m not as active as I was. 
Keren-happuch will light you to your room.” 

“But you should know — I ought to tell you that 
for the present I’ve no money,” faltered the girl. 
“I can pay nothing, and I’d not wish to impose upon 
your kindness, ma’am. I thought maybe you — ^you 
could employ me as a sewing-maid, or — I under- 
stand clear-starching — ” 

“Tut, tut!” chuckled Mrs. Bradley. “ Nonsense, 
my dear!” 

“I — I should prefer to earn my keep, ma’am.” 

“Well, well. Doubtless we can find you occu- 
pation. But to-morrow is time enough to discuss 
that. Have ye supped? No? I’ll have a tray 
sent to your room. Our meal is over.” She heaved 
herself to her feet and waddled ponderously to the 
chimney-breast where hung an embroidered bell-pull : 
and presently in answer to a distant tinkle Keren- 
happuch shuffled in, listened in stolid silence to 
Mrs. Bradley’s orders, and carrying the bag led 
Dorothy upstairs. 


io6 MY LADY APRIL 

It was a large house, but in the darkness it ap- 
peared enormous and Keren’s candle seemed 
drowned in the surrounding gloom. Dorothy 
stumbled after her and down odd steps and along 
narrow passages until they reached a garret bed- 
chamber set among a huddle of gables. 

Here the woman put down her burden, drew 
white curtains across the window, turned back the 
bed-clothes, and lighting a second candle, went away. 

The girl ran to the door and watched her down 
the stair, wondering at her continued silence, but 
convinced that she was friendly. Then opening 
her bag she unpacked what she would need that 
night, resolved that in the morning she would make 
some excuse to leave. 

A vague horror possessed her: a horror of the 
silent house; the bloated, panting travesty of a 
woman below-stairs ; the hideous old negress. In 
sheer desperation she began to sing to drown the 
thoughts that threatened to whelm her self-control 
and unpinning her hair, brushed it out. It fell in a 
shimmering cloak below her knees. 

Keren came back with a loaded tray, caught sight 
of Dorothy’s hair, and plumping her burden upon 
a table, stood staring; amazement, awe, and won- 
der following one another over her wrinkled coun- 
tenance. So might the Wise Men have stood before 
Mary the Mother, adoring. She took a step nearer 
and fell upon her knees, one black hand stretched 
trembling to touch this golden miracle. 

‘‘What is’t ?” said Dorothy, amused. “My hair ?” 


SPIDER AND FLY 


107 

Against Keren’s cheek she thrust a handful, silky- 
soft, faintly scented, curling at the ends like cling- 
ing tendrils. 

The negress gave a strange, inarticulate sob and 
wrung her hands, rocking on her heels, tears cours- 
ing unheeded down her face: suddenly she scram- 
bled to her feet and with a peremptory gesture for 
secrecy, drew a wooden wedge from the folds of 
muslin at her bosom and thrust it beneath the door. 

Amazed, the girl watched a graphic pantomime,, 
and gathered that as there was no key to the lock 
upon her door, she was to wedge it firmly before 
going to sleep. 

“Yes, yes,” she whispered in response to the ne- 
gress’ mute inquiries. “Yes, I understand, and FlI 
keep it hid, but why — O heaven!” 

The negress opened wide her lips and pointed 
down her throat. Her tongue had been cut out. 

Seized with sudden nausea Dorothy fell upon the 
bed, sobbing, shuddering. Keren picked up her 
hand, kissed it, patted it reassuringly; gathered up 
that cloak of hair and plaited it into a shining rope, 
crooning monotonously below her breath. Then, 
motioning to the door she repeated her dumb in- 
junction, hesitated, signed herself, and went away. 

Dorothy wedged the door, listening with her cheek 
against the panels until Keren’s footsteps died out 
along the passage. The house seemed uncannily 
quiet: the doors were shut: there were no lights 
about the passages. 

Shaken, frightened, she sat upon the bedside andl 


io8 MY LADY APRIL 

ate what she could, drank thirstily, and slipping be- 
tween the sheets fell asleep and lay in a heavy slum- 
ber until well into the next day. 

Mrs. Bradley sent for her at noon. 


CHAPTER X 


THE PAPER DOLL 


HE sweet, small winds of April came flut- 



ing down the alleys behind Murfet Street : 


wisps of straw and scraps of paper rose 


in whirling eddies, and, silver-gray against the bril- 
liant blue of the sky, a flock of pigeons wheeled 
above the housetops, circling lower and lower yet 
until with a dazzling flash of white wings they set- 
tled upon the gabled roof of the mews in Stable 


Lane. 


Celia ran out into the roadway to catch another 
glimpse, her round face upturned, her hair on end, 
shrilling her commands to the birds to fly again. 
At that moment a tortoise-shell cat stalked along the 
roof and the startled pigeons rose with a prodigious 
clapping of wings. 

Celia danced and clapped her hands, regardless of 
her fragile family, and half a dozen paper dolls flut- 
tered sidelong to the cobblestones. 

‘‘O babies!’' gasped the child. ‘*A11 in de mud! 
Tut-tut !" She squatted to gather them up, clucking 
dismay, murmuring endearments, smoothing Maria’s 
crumpled limbs, wiping a smudge of mud from 
Agatha’s expressionless face; and a baker’s boy, 


no 


MY LADY APRIL 


balancing a tray of bread upon his head, came trot- 
ting round a corner and all but fell over her. 

'Tired o’ life, an’t ye?” said he, halting with a 
jerk, and swore as a loaf dropped and rolled into 
the kennel. 

Celia rose, pattered over to pick it up, wiped it 
solicitously on her pinner and held it out to him 
with a wide smile. 

“Demme,” sneered the lad. “ Tis no good. 
Tis a mask o’ muck ! Get out o’ my way, rot ye !” 
And pushed the child aside as he ran on. 

Celia sat down heavily in a puddle, stared for an 
instant in amazement, dug both fat fists into her 
eyes, and howled. 

A shabby fellow came out of a huckster’s shop, 
and crossing the road, swung her shoulder-high. 

“Come now,” said Merodach. “You’re not hurt, 
baby!” 

The child withdrew her fists and opened blue 
eyes, staring down at her rescuer’s face, astonish- 
ment struggling with tears. 

Merodach smiled at her, and that settled it. 

“Howwid boy pushed me in mud,” she began, 
her speech still punctuated with sobs. “Want to 
go home.” She fingered her wet garments gingerly. 

“Yes, let’s,” said Merodach. “Which way?” 
Celia considered, and gazing round caught sight 
of her dolls scattered over the road. She wriggled 
violently. “Must pick up babies. Put me down, 
man. Frank you. Oh, Josephine!” She looked 
from the loaf to the. doJl. in her hand., '‘She’s a 


THE PAPER DOLL 


III 


mask o’ muck! Dear, dear! Mawia — Ooh, an’ 
here’s Jus’-Dolly quite safe.” 

''Whafs her name?” asked Merodach, stooping, 
hands on knees, to examine a paper lady in a bril- 
liant gown and a quantity of yellow hair. 

'‘Jus’-Dolly,” explained Celia. “J^s’-Dolly. I 
named her after the beau’ful lady what came an’ 
saved us. Jus’-Dolly.” 

The gypsy looked at the pink-chalked face and 
startlingly blue eyes of the paper doll. '‘Who 
makes these for you?” said he, a little breathlessly. 

Explanation burst from Celia in a flood. 
“Gwandaddy. An’ Jean bought me some chalks, 
pink ’n” blue ’n’ yellow, after Jus’-Dolly had gone 
away. An’ we had hot bread-’n’-milk, ’n’ tea, ’n’ 
stew, ’n’ a gingerbwead dog wiv cuwwant eyes, ’n’ 
nen we said: ‘Fank-God-for-a-good-supper-’n’- 
please-bless-Jus’-Dolly-Amen !’ ” 

“And is Jus’-Dolly like this?” Merodach 
touched the paper doll. 

“Iss!” Celia nodded vigorously. “Jean showed 
me how to color her, but I did Agafa an’ Jean 
an’ Mawia — Ooh!” An ecstatic shriek broke 
from her as Merodach tossed her up on to his 
shoulder. 

“Let’s go home and get dry,” said he, stooping 
for the muddied loaf. “Down here?” 

Grasping a handful of black hair, Celia issued 
directions, and presently they entered the little 
house at the end of the valley to find the old grand- 
father, drowsing happily before the hearth,. 


II2 


MY LADY APRIL 


“Good morning to ye, sir,’’ says Merodach, set- 
ting Celia on her feet. “My lady met with a mis- 
hap, so I carried her home.” He told the old man 
what had happened, while Celia spread her babies 
to dry and trotted into the kitchen in search of a 
towel. 

“Wub me, man,” said she, reappearing and pre- 
senting a fat back. 

Merodach hesitated. 

“My granddaughter’s out, sir,” quavered the an- 
cient, blinking. “Can ye wrap the child in a blanket 
the while her clothes dry? Jean’ll be home pres- 
ently.” 

Celia twisted her head round in a vain endeavor 
to see what would, in years to come, develop into 
her waist; and obeying instructions Merodach un- 
tied and unbuttoned until she slid out of her muddied 
clothing and stood — a plump, adorable seraph — de- 
manding to be rubbed. 

At length, cuddled in a blanket, she fell asleep 
upon her grandfather’s knees, and having spread 
her small garments on a line above the fire, Mero- 
dach drew Up a stool and filled his pipe. 

“You smoke, sir?” said he, and lit up for the old 
man. 

“Thank’ee, lad, thank’ ee! I’ve not drunk to- 
bacco for long, eh ! a long, long time — not till t’other 
day, when my granddaughter brought me a screw. 
Eh, ’tis comfortsome, to be sure. I didn’t guess 
how sore I’d missed it — till t’other day. Jean don’t 
complain, but we were come to the very end — ah. 


THE PAPER DOLL 


113 

the bitter end. I know — I know. Eh, if they fine 
folk as owed the money did but feel the pinch, no 
fire — no vittles — ecod! they’d not sleep till ’twas 
all paid up, ah, to the last farden.” He fell silent, 
sucking contentedly at his pipe. 

“Your granddaughter sews?” suggested Mero- 
dach, eyeing a pile of muslins upon a shelf. 

The ancient shook his head. “Sews ? Lor’ 
bless’ee, sir, she sews all day an’ sometimes half 
the night, an’ taller dips do try the eyesight cruel. 
Beautiful work, sir, wonderful fine work my Jean 
does. But ecod, she’ll ha’ to wait years for her 
money — years! Madam must have her gowns by 
such an’ such a day, but Jean can wait for her 
pay. A burnin’ shame, lad, an’ so ’tis. But what 
can we do? If she complains, they take their cus- 
tom somewhere else.” 

“And these?” Merodach touched the row of paper 
dolls. “They’re clever. You have an eye — ” 

“Ah, I did use to cut silhouettes, d’ye see?” ex- 
plained the gratified old man. “Portraits, ay, an’ 
pictur’s, hunting scenes, bosses an’ all, an’ milk- 
maids wi’ their cows, an’ such. But I’ve lost my 
touch now, I’m too old. I make shift to snip these 
out for the little ’un. Yon’s my Jean, ’tis not un- 
like. An’ that’s Maria, a chair-mender as lives 
nex’ door. This un be Miss Forrest, a sweet young 
lady, sir, on my soul!” 

“You — know her?” said the gypsy, staring at 
the paper doll. 

The ancient wagged his head. “Why, not to 


MY LADY APRIL 


114 

say know her. But she come here t’other day an’ 
Jean showed her they bills, ah! ’twere a desp’rate 
lot o’ money to be sure. Outstandin’ for years. 
Oh, I’m spryer than I look, sir. I know a deal 
more’n Jean thinks. But I keep mum — I keep 
mum. ’T would but vex her if she guessed I were 
wooritin’.” He fumbled for his hanker and fail- 
ing that, mopped tears from his withered cheeks 
with a threadbare cuff. “Dear knows what would 
ha’ come of us, wi’ that brute Arkinshaw a-clamor- 
in’ for his rent an’ makin’ sheep’s eyes at my Jean! 
She’d ha’ sold herself for us, sir, I know she would 
— the lamb! But praise God, it didn’t come to 
that! No, sir. Miss Forrest paid up. Not all — 
oh dear no, not all, but enough to set us on our feet 
again. A sweet creature, sir — what’s that? Who 
— ah, here’s Jean.” 

The door opened to admit a sallow, dark-eyed 
girl, flushed with the wind, her hair escaping from 
her shabby hood, her arms full of bundles. 

When he left, Merodach had learned all she had 
to tell of Dorothy Forrest. 


CHAPTER XI 


SUSPICION 

Y oung Carew, riding beside Mr. Cava- 
nagh on the third day of their search, be- 
came aware that his companion was looking 
at something which had escaped his notice. Always 
a humiliating occurrence. 

“What now?” said he, staring over the common 
in an endeavor to discover the object of the Irish- 
man’s regard. 

Larry drew rein and for an instant sat silent, 
fondling his mare’s neck. “Yonder’s Merodach. 
We’ll wait an’ see could he be givin’ us any news 
at all.” 

“A gypsy!” said Ralph, who had rather be dead 
than unconventional. 

Mr. Cavanagh glanced at him and hid a grin. 
“Merodach, the Champion — oh. I’d forgot. Ye 

were not at the fight. He beat Brooke ” 

“I believe Sir Julian spoke of it,” admitted young 
Carew, and watched the new-comer’s approach. 
“Gad, a fine animal!” 

Down a little footpath that wandered through the 
gorse Merodach came swinging and halted a pace 
or two away, lifting his hand in response to the 
Irishman’s greeting. He wore no hat, his striped 
IIS 


ii6 


MY LADY APRIL 


shirt was open at the throat, and a pair of sinewy 
brown legs gleamed below his patched breeches. 

“The top o’ the mornin’ to ye, Merodach !” cried 
Larry. 

“Good morning to you, sir, I was looking for 
you,” responded Merodach, and glanced inquiringly 
from one to the other. 

Cavanagh shook his head. “Divil a trace of 
her. An’ have ye fared better?” 

“I gathered some news yesterday.” 

Cavanagh caught the other’s hesitation. “Oh,” 
said he heartily. “Sure, ye can speak before Mr. 
Carew. He’s after the child, too.” 

A smile lit Merodach’s dark face. “She’s given 
away the money you collected for her journey.” 

“What!” 

“ ’Tis true. She paid every farthing of it to a 
creditor — a girl who sewed for Lady Forrest, and 
who was in direst need.” 

“Good ged!” ejaculated Cavanagh, and began to 
laugh. “Good ged! Now if ’tis not Dolly all 
over, bless her!” 

“Little fool!” cried young Carew. “Why, 
there’s not the faintest claim upon her, what — ?” 

“Miss Forrest considered it a debt of honor,” 
said the gypsy. “Jean — the semptress — told me 
the whole story. Miss Forrest kept only seven 
shillings, which were her own. The postilion con- 
fesses that he drove her back to within sight of 
the Forrest house, but Barty Griggs declares she 
never entered it. So — ” 


SUSPICIONi 


II 17 

‘The London coach passes/' suggested Ralph. 

“Yes, sir. I thought of that. But — seven shil- 
lings !” 

A silence fell, broken only by the gentle breath 
of the horses and the scrape of Colleen's impatient 
hoof upon the turf. 

“Merodach," said Cavanagh at length, “there’s 
more on the tip of the tongue of ye." 

Their eyes met and slowly the color drained 
from the Irishman’s face. “Good ged, man! Not 
that!" he stammered, and made as if to push some- 
thing from him. 

“No," replied the gypsy soberly. “I've no reason 
to believe she’s dead, sir. But — I fear she went to 
— Mrs. Bradley’s — " 

“Holy Mother!” whispered Larry, and sat as 
if turned to stone. 

Merodach remained absently stroking Colleen's 
nose, and for an instant neither gave a thought to 
young Carew who fidgeted in his saddle, wishing 
to heaven they’d be explicit. 

‘Tn a way, 'tis my fault," said the gypsy at length. 
‘T found some half-burnt scraps of a letter below 
Lady Forrest’s table, and like a clever fool I needs 
must show them to Miss Dorothy. A word or two 
was readable and she jumped to the conclusion 
that her mother bade her wait at Mrs. Bradley’s. 
That was before the journey to Winterbourne be- 
came possible, and — I’d forgot about it. I thought 
she was off in Sussex — I never dreamed she’d 
go 


ii8 


MY LADY APRIL 


‘‘But how the deuce do you come to be in Miss 
Forrest’s confidence?” said Ralph querulously 

“Good ged, boy! What the divil does that 
matter?” cried Cavanagh. “Merodach, dids’t the 
child know that — ?” 

“She told me Mrs. Bradley kept a finishing school 
for the daughters of gentlemen,” replied Merodach. 

“Holy Mother!” said Cavanagh again, and burst 
into hysterical laughter. 

Outraged in every instinct, young Carew watched 
sulkily while the Irishman mopped the tears from 
his face. “I might remind you, sir, that you did 
me the honor to solicit my assistance,” said he 
with superb dignity. “Unless you make me ac- 
quaint with the facts, I fail to see how I can be 
of use.” 

“Merodach, you tell him,” said Larry helplessly. 

In short, cold sentences Merodach laid the facts 
before Carew and the lad winced as from a shower 
of icy water. Doubts assailed him. Lady Kirk- 
patrick’s sneering words rose from some corner of 
his memory and dinned in his ears. “ . . . Yonder’s 
the daughter, out hunting game for her mother’s 
table. Keep out of her clutches. A vampire! 
Nash should forbid her the place! . . .” 

And the girl herself? He saw her flushed like 
a cottage rose, shielding her cheeks with a gauze 
fan, denying him with resolute trembling little 
hands. 

“ . . . I like you too well to have a hand in your 
undoing. It is all true — I — I am a decoy. . . .” 


SUSPICION 


119 

Gad ! it was all true ! What a blind fool he had 
been. Her very resistance was a clever bait. Inno- 
cent? Maybe. But what girl living as she had 
done could be ignorant? Well, his eyes were open 
now. 

Rousing from his absorption, young Carew re- 
alized that the other two were covertly watching 
him, glancing at each other. What parts did they 
play in this tragi-comedy ? What was the girl to 
them? 

He recalled Cavanagh’s visit of condolence. 
Lud, what was that but a cloak to cover some deep 
design? The Irishman’s smooth tongue had won 
his sympathy, but what in heaven’s name was 
Cavanagh’s reason for inveigling him into the affair ? 
He recollected that Cavanagh had acknowledged 
himself a friend of the family, had suggested that 
he should ride to Dorothy’s rescue. Good lord, it 
was all one infamous plot to ruin him. It behooved 
him to walk warily, but sure, a fellow who had just 
returned from visiting all the great capitals of 
Europe should be a match for a mad Irishman 
and gypsy vagrant without a coat to his back. 

Young Carew picked up his reins and ignoring 
Merodach, turned to Cavanagh. 

"‘My thanks, sir, for enlightening me. I’ve not 
yet had time to become acquaint with Bath, but 
no doubt you know where this house lies? If the 
young lady’s gone there, nothing remains but to 
fetch her away. I suppose ’tis merely a matter of 
a letter, warning Miss Forrest of our intent.” 


120 


MY LADY APRIL 


‘‘She’d never get it,” said Merodach with con- 
viction. 

Carew looked at him. “You’ve some knowledge 
of Mrs. — er — Bradley’s methods, perhaps?” 

Merodach shrugged. “I know she’s a dangerous, 
unscrupulous woman. ’Tis said she goes armed. 
She’s quite capable of shooting the child, if she 
knew we were trying to get her out. There’s a 
ten- foot wall surrounds the house and a dumb 
negress keeps the gate. So much is common 
knowledge. A prison’s less difficult to break be- 
cause we — ” 

“Really?” Ralph’s glance was withering. 
“Well, shall we meet to-night, and make the at- 
tempt?” Blissfully unconscious that he had never 
been nearer a horse-whipping, he gave his back to 
Merodach and looked at Cavanagh. 

Larry shook his head. “To-morrow at the dawn 
we’d stand a better chance, eh, Merodach?” 

Merodach dug clenched fists into his breeches 
pockets for better security, and nodded. 

“Then to-morrow let it be!” cried young Carew. 

A rendezvous was agreed upon and they parted 
at the edge of the common. Merodach disappeared 
among a clump of birches: Cavanagh, being bound 
for the Three Tuns, offered to lead Carew’s horse : 
and Carew walked home to breakfast, engrossed in 
thought. 

If plots were afoot, he would counter-plot, and 
he was convinced that he held an advantage, inas- 


SUSPICION 


I2I 


much as Cavanagh and the gypsy could have no 
notion that his suspicions were aroused. They 
trusted him, and he had the whole day before him 
in which to devise a plan. 


CHAPTER XII 

THE WATCHER ON THE HILL 

W ATCHING his opportunity with the tail 
of one wise eye, the little brown dog 
turning the spit before the kitchen fire 
suddenly scuttled out of the wheel, dodged the 
irate cook and yapping jo5^ously made for the open 
door and the sunny garden. 

‘'Oh, drat the animal!” exclaimed Maria. “I 
forgot to chain him. Here, miss — your legs are 
younger ’n mine. Catch him while I mind the 
joint.” 

Dorothy untied her apron, threw it over her 
head and ran out, thankful for a moment’s respite. 
Meals were a sacred rite in Mrs. Bradley’s house, 
and she knew that the cook dare not leave the spit 
to follow her. She was free for ten minutes. 

The little brown dog raced across the formal 
flower-beds before the house and gambolling over 
the lawn disappeared among some bushes at the 
foot of the sloping garden. 

The girl followed leisurely, calling, whistling to 
give some show of pursuit. Sparks thrust his head 
through a clump of guelder roses, put out a derisive 
122 


THE WATCHER ON THE HILL 1 23 

tongue and dived aw;ay again, challenging her to 
catch him. 

Dorothy looked round, made certain that she 
could not be seen from the house, and sat down 
upon a log, her chin in her hands, her eyes absently 
watching the bubbling waters of a little brook that 
ran across the bottom of the garden and under a 
low arch in the boundary wall. 

Great limes in all their glory of fresh leaves 
towered above her : beyond the wall the ground 
rose steeply, covered with trees and underbrush, 
until at the crest of the rise the sky showed pale 
behind the serried trunks. 

Drawing deep breaths of the sweet air, Dorothy 
sat motionless, conscious only of the restful green- 
ness of the place, the cooling wind upon her cheeks, 
flushed from tending 'the oven. The chuckling 
music of the brook lulled her into a half-doze; she 
stretched lazily, and opening drowsy eyes, caught 
a glimpse of movement among the trees fringing 
the top of the bank opposite. 

A horseman, silhouetted against the patches of 
sky, disappearing as he passed the clustered tree- 
trunks, came slowly along the brow of the hill 
and halted to gaze down into the hollow. 

Dorothy’s heart missed a beat and then quickened 
to a rushing tumult. In a frenzy of suspense, of 
sudden wild hope, of agonizing fear lest he should 
turn and ride away, she snatched her white apron 
and waved it desperately. 

A quick turn of the head assured her that she 


124 


MY LADY APRIL 


was seen, She waited, breathless, her eyes Upon 
the shadowy figure, hardly visible in the twilight 
of the beeches, 

Then a twig cracked upon the lawn at her back 
and she spun round to face Mrs. Bradley, horrific 
in a scarlet Spanish shawl, her head muffled against 
the spring breeze, an ebony stick supporting her 
either hand. 

It seemed incredible that such a mountain of 
flesh could have approached so silently. 

Mrs. Bradley possessed a vocabulary of which a 
sergeant of dragoons might have been proud, and 
now she swore at Dorothy until her breath gave 
out and she could only stand gasping, impotent, 
her heavy face congested with dark color. 

The girl remained silent, trembling, white to the 
lips; sickened by the old woman’s revolting pro- 
fanity; in terror lest she had seen the watcher 
among the trees. 

“Cook sent me to catch Sparks, ma’am,’’ she said 
at last. “He got out of the wheel.” 

“You don’t catch dogs with waving pinners at 
’em,” sneered Mrs. Bradley. “Who’d ye signal 
to ?” 

“Signal?” faltered Dorothy, resolutely keeping 
her eyes from straying toward the hillside. 

“Ay. Explain.” 

“Sparks went into the bushes, ma’am, and I 
thought to ’tice him out to play and then catch his 
collar.” Ah God! if only she dare to look to see if 
the man was still there ! 


THE WATCHER ON THE HILL 1 2 5 

'‘You lie!” panted Mrs. Bradley, and struck the 
girl across the shoulders with the stick in her right 
hand. 

Dorothy shrieked, and out from the bushes darted 
the little brown dog, barking, snapping, threatening 
Mrs. Bradley with gleaming teeth and every hair 
upon his back a>bristle with rage. 

Mrs. Bradley grunted with surprise and disgust, 
aimed a blow at Sparks and staggered backward 
beneath the unexpected fury of his attack. He 
leapt at the scarlet shawl, seized a mouthful of 
thick fringe and tugged, snarling viciously. Help- 
less, floundering, unable to keep her balance, Mrs. 
Bradley toppled over and lay, an unseemly welter 
of tossing petticoats and thick ankles, struggling 
to rise. 

Dorothy glanced upward to the hill. The horse- 
man was nowhere to be seen. Maddened with dis- 
appointment the girl caught Sparks by the collar, 
pulled him away, tucked him beneath her arm and 
stood regarding the wallowings of Mrs. Bradley 
with a feeling akin to satisfaction. The old woman 
rolled into a kneeling posture, and gasping, dis- 
hevelled, held out trembling hands for Dorothy to 
help her up. 

“If I loose Sparks he’ll be at you again, ma’am,” 
s^ys Miss Forrest coolly. 

Mrs. Bradley found breath enough to curse. 

Dorothy shrugged. “I’ll put him in his kennel, 
ma’am, and return,” said she, and walked away hug-, 
ging Sparks who grinneciand licked her chin.^ 


126 


MY LADY APRIL 


Before the girl came back with Keren-happuch, 
Mrs. Bradley had had time to cool down, and suf- 
fered herself to be hauled to her feet with nothing 
worse than discordant grunts. 

The negress helped her into the house, and 
Dorothy returned to the kitchen in a fever of 
suspense. 

Had the watcher upon the hilltop seen? Would 
he wait? Was it — could it be Mr. Carew? Dare 
she implore his aid? A fortnight under Mrs. Brad- 
ley’s roof had taught her the dangers of her po- 
sition. Her appeal might be misconstrued, laughed 
at. 

In her distraction she broke two plates and the 
cook boxed her ears, but at length her work was 
over. She soothed her sore hands in cold well- 
water, and drying them on her apron went out into 
the yard to give Sparks his supper. 

The little dog, suffering from an attack of con- 
science, had taken up a strategic position at the back 
of his kennel, and no amount of flattery would 
coax him out; so Dorothy left him a platter of 
bones, and keeping in the shadow of the tall box 
hedges, reached the kitchen gardens. Here she 
crept to the back of the cabbage beds where a row 
of old currant bushes stood close to the boundary 
wall, and hidden behind these she made the best 
of her way to the brook side, breathless, eager, 
smothering a dread that he might not be there. 

The glow of the setting sun still lingered in the 
west ; a faintly green sky flecked with golden clouds 


THE WATCHER ON THE HILL 127 

shone behind the hilltop: but beneath the beeches 
a dim twilight hid everything and any one who 
might be lurking in their shade. 

For a long moment the girl peered upward into 
the woodland, her breath catching in a little, audible 
sob of disappointment: and then from the guelder 
bushes where Sparks had hidden, a man rose and 
strode toward her. 

She knew him before he was near enough for her 
to see his face in the green dusk. 

“You !” said she, backing, her hands at her throat. 

The twilight of the trees turned her gold hair to 
silver, her face glimmered pale as a pearl : he caught 
both her hands in one of his and held her close. 

“Did that beldame hurt you?” said young Carew, 
and bent his head to kiss her. 

Dorothy hid her face in the lace of his cravat, 
trembling, relaxing in the blessed sense of protection. 

“Gad, had I been within range Td have shot the 
old hag, but my pistols don’t carry so far.” 

“Were you watching, then?” murmured the girl. 

“O lud! I turned my eyes away when she fell 
over! ’Twas no spectacle for a modest bachelor! 
Did the dog bite her, sweetheart? I prayed for it. 
Come — smile, or I shall think you’re not glad to 
see me.” 

He coaxed her into some degree of calm, spread 
his cloak upon the log and sat beside her, talking 
until she had recovered command of herself. 

Then : “How did you find me ?” asked Dorothy. 

“Oh, 'tis a long story — too long for to-night. 


128 


MY LADY APRIL 


I’ve been riding out in search of you for days past, 
and then, from the top of the bank yonder — I saw 
you wave your apron.” 

*‘You knew me?” said the girl happily, and waited 
for no assent, so sure was she of his reply. ‘'But 
I, I dared not hope ’twas you!” 

Laughing, he reached for her, 'but she rose 
suddenly. 

"I — Fd forgot. I must explain my — my pres- 
ence here — in this house. I — O, Mr. Carew — 
you must believe — I implore you to believe that I 
came — innocently. Ah God, had I known I — ” 

"You distress yourself needlessly,” began Ralph, 
getting to his feet in some dismay. He had not 
thought that she would weep : it was deranging his 
carefully considered plans. Gad, there was no tell- 
ing what a woman would do. He had taken for 
granted that she would be overjoyed to see him: 
their meeting was to have been all laughter and 
pretty fooling, and here she was, putting him out. 

"O heaven I You do believe me?” She clutched 
him by the shoulders and stared up into his eyes, 
stammering in an incoherent torrent of words. "I 
swear to you I knew nothing of this house — noth- 
ing! But for the negress I should — she tried to 
keep me from entering, she thought — Oh, don’t 
laugh at me ! She thought I was a saint. My hair 
— she loved my hair — she explained afterward, in 
dumb show. She has no tongue. The — others 
are afraid of her — ^but she — she loves me, and she 
3.aye.(l — O lud, how can I tell you.?, Ir-I became. 


THE WATCHER ON THE HILL 129 

scullery-maid. The^ — the alternative that Mrs. 
Bradley offered was — unthinkable. I — O God, 
you do believe me? Say that you do! Say it — 
say it 1” She tried to shake him, beside herself with 
terror lest he misjudge her. 

‘‘Dear,’' said Ralph, soothing her. “If I did not, 
should I be here?” 

With a stifled cry Dorothy abandoned herself 
to his embrace. “Keren has the key of the door 
in the wall,” she sobbed. “There is no other. If 
I’d escape that way, she would have suffered, and 
I couldn’t climb the wall. And even — even had I 
got out, where was I to go — coming from — such a 
place?” 

“Hush, hush! I understand,” murmured young; 
Carew. 

She lay in his arms passively, submitting, but 
not responding to his lips, and when after a while 
she released herself he let her go unwillingly. She 
stood smiling faintly at his ardor, her hands busy 
with her tumbled hair. 

“I shall bring a chaise and pair to-night,” de- 
clared young Carew, carried away by his own elo- 
quence, almost persuaded that he meant honorably, 
forgetting Cavanagh’s conspiracy in the intoxica- 
tion of her consent. “Is there a ladder here?” 

“The gardener keeps one yonder in the tool-shed. 
But ’tis locked up,” she told him. “Where will you 
take me?” 

“Where you will, sweetheart!” Locked doors 
were nothing to a determined lover. 


130 


MY LADY APRIL 


‘To Winterbourne, then. To my cousin's,” 
whispered Dorothy, and slid her arms about his neck. 
“Until — until we are — wed.” 

The word brought Ralph to earth. It was one 
thing to rescue a young girl from the clutches of 
an ogress such as the Bradley, but quite another 
to present her to a curious world as his wife. He 
remembered his suspicions of the morning; Cava- 
nagh’s covert glances with the gypsy. Gad, it was 
all of a piece. The little hussy was acting. The 
very fact that she could laugh at him with the tears 
still shining on her cheeks convinced him that she 
did play a part. 

He must keep his head: kisses made his senses 
swim: he must be cool. Yet it seemed folly not to 
kiss her while she still believed in him. 

He tore himself away at last, vowing to return 
within two hours, and Dorothy stole up to her 
room and packed her few possessions with trem- 
bling fingers, wondering how he had discovered her, 
and yet too happy to harass herself with definite 
questions. There would be time and to spare dur- 
ing their journey into Sussex. He had promised 
to ride with her in the chaise and set all her vague 
doubts at rest. 

She waited until the weary cook had passed her 
door on the way to her room, and then carrying 
valise and shoes, crept softly down to the hall. The 
tinkle of a spinet and a girl’s voice singing was 
almost drowned by the clatter of glass and china 
which came from the oak room. 


THE WATCHER ON THE HILL 13 1 

Mrs. Bradley entertained. 

Dreading lest she should come suddenly upon her, 
Dorothy paused in the porch, where, a lantern at 
her feet, the negress sat dozing. 

‘‘My betrothed is coming for me, Keren,’^ whis- 
pered the girl, her arms around the woman’s neck, 
her lips against the dusky ear. “No blame can 
fall on you, for he’s reared the ladder against the 
wall by the brook. I shall go that way. God bless 
you, Keren! Good-by!” She slipped one of her 
few precious coins into Keren’s palm. 

The negress hugged her joyously, kissed her 
hands, and watched until she vanished in the moon- 
lit garden. 

Young Carew was waiting at the foot of the lad- 
der. 


CHAPTER XIII 


LURCHED 

T O Mr. Cavanagh, expectant at the rendez- 
vous, came Merodach, footsore, breathless, 
splashed with mud from hair to heel. 
‘‘Good ged !” Larry leaned forward to peer into 
the gypsy’s face. “What ails ye, man? What’s 
happened ?” 

For an instant Merodach clung to the saddle- 
bow and rested his head against Colleen’s satin 
shoulder, fighting for breath. 

“Young Carew’s — run off wi’ her — ” he panted 
at length. “Come to my camp. I must have wa- 
ter.” 

Cavanagh insisted that Merodach should ride, and 
the gypsy clambered to the saddle and sat propping 
himself with his hands upon the mare’s withers, his 
chin upon his breast, dead-beat, dejected. 

They turned from the road across a patch of turf 
dotted with gorse bushes, and halted at length in 
a copse of lady birches beside a trickling brook. A 
pale radiance stole into the eastern sky, a thrush 
began to chirp drowsily from the thicket, and from 
the earth arose that faint murmur as of a sleeper 
awakening, that always heralds the dawn. 

132 


LURCHED 


133 


Racked with anxiety, Cavanagh tethered the mare^ 
lifted a square of turf from the smoldering fire, 
and putting on some dry wood, spread his cloak 
upon a heap of cut heather and sat waiting silently 
until Merodach was able to talk. 

The gypsy drank and washed his hands and feet, 
and presently dropped full length upon the turf, 
turning his face from the glow of the fire. 

‘T mistrusted young Carew,’' he said, as Cava- 
nagh began a string of questions. ‘'Did you mark 
how he fell silent when I told him of Mrs. Brad- 
ley? He thinks us in league with her. O lud, sir, 
I know the type! He conceives himself a man o' 
the world, a shrewd fellow. Always suspicious of 
being fooled, he fools himself. He discovers insult 
where no offense is meant. He scents intrigue 
where nothing is further from the truth. Gad, I 
can read Ralph Carew!" 

“But what the devil’s happened?” cried Larry. 
“Where is she?” 

“She’s gone off with him in a chaise and pair. 
You see, sir, I’d an idea Mr. Carew meant to play 
us false, and if he did ’twould be before dawn. I 
slept here until nightfall and then hid in some bushes 
half-way down a bank that overlooks the Bradley’s 
garden. He must have seen Miss Forrest, some- 
how, during the day, for the chaise hadn’t been wait- 
ing five minutes when she came down the lawn. He 
climbed from the chaise roof to the top o’ the wall 
and a ladder was ready on t’other side.” Merodach 
smiled bitterly at the dejected Irishman. “We’re 


134 


MY LADY APRIL 


lurched, sir, sure enough. Carew knew we’d not 
move before the dawn.” 

Cavanagh swore. Merodach bit into a hunk of 
bread and cheese. 

In the east the sky flushed rosily and a lark shot 
up from the wet grass, singing his way into the 
blue. 

‘They took the road to Devizes,” said the gypsy, 
pondering. “I followed the chaise for a matter of 
five miles, to make sure.” 

“Devizes ? Good ged, and don’t the lad mean to 
take her to Winterbourne?” cried Cavanagh, sud- 
denly jubilant. “Faith, ’tis but a boy’s love of he- 
roics. He’ll carry off the imprisoned princess while 
we sit discussin’ the way we’d be doin’ it! Sure, 
he’ll be back crowin’ over us before he’s had time 
to get there, the rascal !” 

“You may be right, sir,” admitted Merodach. 
“But — Devizes might mean London. I’ll keep an 
eye on ’em, I think.” 

“You!” 

The gypsy nodded. “I know every inch o’ the 
country. I can borrow a horse — no, not Colleen, 
thank’ee, sir. Mr. Carew’d remember her. I’ll go 
disguised, and catch ’em before nightfall. I’ll write 
you — ” He broke off, laughing at the Irishman’s 
astonished face. “O lud, yes. I can write. You 
shall have news of me within the week.” 

“ ’Tis hankerin’ I am to come with ye,” said 
Larry wistfully. 

“I know, sir. But she’ll be safe — with me. And 


LURCHED 


135 

you’d be recognized the minute you opened your 
mouth.’^ 

“Good ged!” laughed Larry. “I suppose that’s 
the truth. But why not follow openly?” 

“Because we’re more like to learn Mr. Ralph’s 
intentions if he don’t suspect he’s watched.” 

Cavanagh nodded soberly. “An’ I trusted the 
lad! Well, I’ll kick me heels in Bath awhile, an’ 
keep an ear cocked for news. And Merodach, ye’ll 
need money.” 

“Thanks, sir. No,” said Merodach. He got to 
his feet, trampled out the fire, poured water on 
the ashes and hid a frying-pan and some dried wood 
beneath a heap of last year’s bracken. 

Cavanagh watched him intently. “Ye’re an 
enigma, Merodach, me boy,” said he at length. 
“I’m wonderin’ who the devil ye are.” 

The gypsy laughed. “Gad, one who can keep his 
own counsel is a rarity in this gossip-market I” 

“I confess I’m curious!” 

“In that you’re with the majority,” returned 
Merodach, twinkling. “Some day, sir, like the he- 
roes of the novels, I will sit down and tell you 
the story of my life. But to-night” — he glanced 
at the brightening sky — “to-day, time presses.” 


CHAPTER XIV 


AT THE SIGN OF THE GOAT AND COMPASSES 

I T falls to few of us to have our dreams come 
true, and even our dearest wishes, realized, 
never approach the glory of imagination. 
Probably Eve’s apple was a crab, or she would 
have finished it herself and gathered another for 
Adam. 

At nineteen an elopement with a declared adorer 
seems the summit of desire. Merely to elope: to 
scurry, trembling, down a moonlit garden: to be 
caught in strong young arms and kissed breath- 
less: to climb a ladder and be lifted in delicious 
peril from the roof of a waiting chaise: to lie 
against a warm shoulder and listen to divinely 
preposterous vows: merely to elope! 

Dorothy had dreamed of it since she was old 
enough to read, but dreaming youth never looks 
far ahead. Sufficient unto the hour is the bliss 
thereof. 

The very act of eloping was a delirious joy : the 
one thing lacking was a furious parent in pursuit. 
They had escaped almost too easily. Dorothy 
sighed and wriggled into a more comfortable posi- 
tion: Ralph wedged himself with foot and elbow 
to resist the capricious joltings of the chaise; and 
136 


THE GOAT AND COMPASSES 137 

glanced at the sky above the tree-tops, dark, in- 
tensely blue, powdered with a myriad stars. 

Gad, what a night! He thought of Cavanagh 
and Merodach awaiting him at the rendezvous, and 
chuckled. 

“What is it?^’ murmured Dorothy. “I was al- 
most asleep.” 

Instead of rej)lying he kissed her, sublimely un- 
conscious of a footsore gypsy, watching their flight 
from the top of a rise. 

So did Dorothy elope, content to live from one 
heartbeat to the next; supremely happy; never 
doubting the gallant who sat beside her, whispering 
extravagant professions of affection, fugitive vows, 
that for the moment convinced them both. And 
for both the moment was all that mattered. There 
was no past, no future, nothing but the dark chaise 
and the stars, and the ineffable wonder of young 
love. 

The moon set, the stars faded one by one, a bird 
fluffed out his feathers, chirped a tentative note or 
two, and gaining no reply tucked head under wing 
again for another nap. 

Slowly the east brightened : a rosy glow heralded 
the sun: gold, green, and crimson flared across the 
sky like welcoming banners in the path of a con- 
queror. Drowsily the earth cast off her misty veils 
of gray and purple, and with a faint sound of wings 
awoke at the bidding of another day. The heavens 
were all a-thrill with soaring larks before the sun 
rose above the dim horizon. 


MY LADY APRIL 


138 

Breathless with delight Dorothy sat forward and 
watched the sky, the long shadows on the dew-gray 
fields, the color that crept into tree and hedgerow 
until all the world glowed vivid green. Never in 
all her life had she seen anything so glorious as the 
dawn. 

The sight of the postilion, hunched in his saddle, 
sagging wearily to the movement of his horse, 
brought her to earth. The fellow was dog-tired. 

‘‘Ralph,'’ said she, laying a hand on his inert 
shoulder, “Ralph, we must rest somewhere. The 
boy’s exhausted.” 

“Wha’?” muttered young Carew, smothering a 
yawn. “Demmit, was I asleep? What now?” 

“The postilion,” urged Dorothy. “Look, he’s 
tired out. Tell him to stop and rest a while, there’s 
no such haste.” 

“Gad, he must make shift until we come to an 
inn.” Carew leaned from the window. “Where’s 
the next post-house, boy?” 

The lad jerked upright and turned dazed eyes 
upon his employer. “Anon, sir?” 

Ralph repeated his question and the postilion 
stood in his stirrups to look over the hedge. 

“ ’Cod, sir, I don’t rightly know where we be. I 
must ha’ dozed off, your honor, an ’took a wrong 
turn. That’ll be Wedhampton yonder. We can 
take a by-road. Only a quarter-hour’s ride, sir.” 
He touched his horses with his whip and they 
moved off again, while Carew threw himself back 
into his seat in a most unromantic temper. 


THE GOAT AND COMPASSES 139 

‘‘Young fool!” said he. “He should have kept 
awake. What’s he paid for? Now heaven only 
knows when we’ll breakfast.” 

Sighing a little as her dreams faded, Dorothy 
reached for her valise and unpacked a flask of wine 
and some cake. The glamorous night was over : in 
the cold light of day her lover looked sulky and a 
little dishevelled: his wig askew, his lace cravat 
under one ear. He laughed at her idea of a meal, 
not appreciating the difliculty she had had to secure 
even so much as wine and cake : but he ate raven- 
ously and was unaware that they drank from the 
same flask. 

Dorothy had sense enough to hide her disap- 
pointment, and denied that she was hungry; but 
when half an hour later they drew up at a quiet inn 
she retired above-stairs, drank a dish of tea, and 
lying down fully dressed slept until noon; leaving 
young Carew to lounge and yawn on the settle 
before the tap-room fire. 

Dinner over, they started again with fresh horses, 
the post-boy surreptitiously picking straws from his 
clothing as he rode: and so by easy stages came 
at nightfall to a straggling village; and jogging 
through a herd of sleepy cows, halted under the 
sign of the Goat and Compasses, Benjamin Foster, 
Entertainment for Man and Beast. 

Foster himself bustled out and held the chaise door 
as young Carew descended. 

“You have rooms?” inquired Ralph. 

“Certainly, sir.” 


140 


MY LADY APRIL 


‘Then serve supper as soon as maybe/’ 
“Certainly, sir. What 'would her ladyship be 
pleased to fancy? Stewed carp with fried smelts. 
A green goose, or lamb roasted with — ” 

“O lud! Country fare, with a vengeance!” 

“I adore country fare!” said Miss Forrest, smil- 
ing upon the landlord to that old fellow’s instant 
subjection. “Sir, your arm.” 

Young Carew offered his wrist: an ostler ran up 
and dragged out the baggage, and the host led the 
way indoors, pausing in the hall to call a chamber- 
maid. 

“Show the White Roe, Bess,” said he. “Madam, 
will you walk upstairs? Sir, the coffee-room — ” 
He threw open the door. “Can I fetch your honor 
anything? A glass of canary?” 

Young Carew entered, discovered a gentleman in 
black dozing upon two chairs, and turned irrita- 
bly. 

“I prefer a private room,” he began. 

The landlord was apologetic. There was no other 
room. “Sure, sir, the Spanish gentleman — ” 

The figure upon the hearth yawned, sat upright, 
and scowled over his shoulder. *^Dios me guarde!^* 
said he. “I desired to be alone, fellow.” 

The landlord craved their honors’ pardons. 
There was no other room. He trusted — 

The Spaniard flicked impatient fingers. “Enough. 
Give him fresh horses. The next inn will suit him 
better than this.” 


THE GOAT AND COMPASSES 141 

*^0 sir, there’s a lady,” stammered Foster, con- 
cerned at the prospect of losing custom. 

At that the man in black rose and bowed with a 
magnificence young Carew strove in vain to imitate. 

'^Senor/^ said he with grave courtesy, ‘Ve have 
a proverb in Spain — ‘The best right is the oldest — - 
possession.’ This room is mine, but you will honor 
me by becoming my guests. Sirrah, serve the sup- 
per I ordered, and lay covers for three.” 

“Sir, you overwhelm me,” began Ralph, a little 
awed by the assurance of the other’s manner. Here 
doubtless was some great man, accustomed to un- 
questioning obedience. 

“E/ diablo! ’Tis nought. Will you sit, senorf 
And landlord, a bottle of Oporto.” 

Relieved and beaming, Foster hurried out; and 
young Carew, throwing hat and cloak aside, crossed 
to the wide hearth and took the chair the Spaniard 
offered. 

“I fear to discommode you sir,” he began, rest- 
less under the other’s flow of compliment. 

'^Por dios, senor, no! I expected rustics, clod- 
hoppers. Egad, senor, wine loses half its flavor 
when drunk alone and without a toast. You and 
your wife are more than welcome!” He rose with 
lithe grace as a maid carried in glasses and a cob- 
webbed bottle. “You’ve not shaken it, my dear?” 

“O la, sir, no!” she giggled. 

“The corkscrew? Ha! A mala cama es bueno 
colchon de vino!'\^ He glanced at young Carew. 


142 


MY LADY APRIL 


‘‘You speak my language, senorf No? Ah, then 
must I translate. Your glass. Sir, to you ! Heaven 
knows how we shall sleep to-night and — ‘wine 
makes a good cover for a bad bed !’ ” He threw 
back his head and laughed, refilling Ralph’s glass. 
“Gad, this cursed English climate chills my very 
bones !” 

“Yet ’tis said ’tis the climate makes us what we 
are,” quoth young Carew complacently. 

“Indeed, senorf You have my sympathies !” 
He shivered and held out brown, heavily ringed 
hands to the blaze. 

“You travel alone, sir?” said Ralph, wondering 
if he should venture to warn this stranger that so 
much jewelry invited attack. 

“At present, yes. ’Tis my whim. English flunk- 
ies bore me, and my own man had the audacity to 
fall sick in — el diablo — ^what was the name of the 
place? Chick — shist — ah, Chickchester.” 

“Unfortunate!” agreed young Carew. “And 
what of the roads, sir?” 

The Spaniard shrugged. “Roads? You call 
them roads? Bad enough for a horseman. Al- 
most impossible for a chaise.” 

“Demmit,” says Ralph, savoring his wine. “And 
I’m in haste.” 

“You are for Chickchester, senorf Then 
avoid — ” 

“No. We travel to London.” 

“Ah! Madam goes to court, doubtless. Senor, 
the bottle’s with you,” 


THE GOAT AND COMPASSES 143 

The maid knocked and entered to superintend the 
laying of supper, and young Carew excused him- 
self and went above-stairs to make a toilet. He 
found Miss Forrest at the dresser, brushing her 
hair. 

“Who's there?” she cried as the door opened; and 
catching sight of Carew in the mirror, turned, 
blushing rosily. “Oh, 'tis you, Ralph. Did you 
miss your way?” 

“There’s a stranger below,” said he, ignoring 
her question. “A Spaniard. I distrust these for- 
eigners. D’you mind supping alone?” 

“Here?” said she, astonished. 

“Yes. I’m sorry, but there’s no private room, 
and the fellow’s drinking like a fish. ’Twill be 
more comfortable for you, Doll. ’Tis disappoint- 
ing — but d’ye mind?” He pulled her up to him 
and kissed her. “I’ll come up — later. Gad, what 
hair ! D’ye know you’re a beauty, Doll ?” 

She dimpled. “O lud, what woman considers 
herself plain? Loose me, Ralph — some one — ” 

“Oh, I told the landlord to send up your sup- 
per,” said he, and as the chambermaid entered with 
a tray, he strolled over to the window. 

“Hello? A gallery?” 

Miss Forrest nodded a dismissal to the servant. 

“Yes. The other rooms along this wing open on 
to it. Bess — the maid — told me they’ve been adding 
to the house. That’s the courtyard below. The 
stables are on t’other side, and that archway leads 
into the road,” 


144 


MY LADY APRIL 


Ralph looked at her curiously. You’ve been 
making inquiries. Why?” 

“O la!” cried Dorothy, laughing a little shame- 
facedly. ’Tis more — ^more romantic. Look! If 
we were pursued — if we had to escape from the 
house ’twere easy to climb through this window on 
to the gallery and run down the stair into the court 
and so to the stables. Oh, I know we are safe — 
but an elopement — ” 

“Gad, what a little fantastic it is!” laughed 
Ralph, an arm about her. “Safe? Of course 
you’re safe! Who’s to pursue us?” 

Sudden loneliness whelmed her : she clung to him 
and bit her lip. “No one, Ralph. None cares 
two straws what becomes of me. None but you. 
I almost could wish I’d a curmudgeon of a 
guardian.” 

“Take my word for it, sweet, ’tis vastly more 
comfortable lacking one ! Interfering old creatures, 
for ever urging a man to — to do this or that. Well, 
supper waits. Lend me your comb.” 

“ ’Tis monstrous indelicate — before we are wed,” 
faltered the girl as he took off his wig to smooth 
it, and flicked the dust from his shoulders with her 
brush. 

“Nonsense!” laughed Ralph. “Don’t be squeam- 
ish! Have I to ask permission of the church to 
kiss you?” He glanced in the mirror, shot his 
ruffles, and hurried off. 

Dorothy sighed. He had not kissed her. Had 
her prudery rebuffed him? A Spaniard below- 


THE GOAT AND COMPASSES 145 

stairs? It would have been prodigious intriguing 
to meet a Spaniard. Dark as a gypsy, doubtless: 
mysterious, fascinating. She wished Ralph had let 
her eat with them. Was he jealous? Was he 
ashamed of her? It was annoying to be shut up 
here like a child in a nursery. Almost she resolved 
to brave his displeasure and go down. 

She went to the table and lifted the covers: a 
plateful of roast goose and greens. She loathed 
greens. Stewed fish, rapidly cooling. They had 
not even the decency to keep one plate until she 
had eaten the first course. Flushing angrily she 
looked about her for a bell ; and found none. It was 
humiliating to be so treated. She should have been 
offered a choice of food: attended while she ate. 
Carew was altogether too domineering. She must 
teach him his manners. 

A flushed, imperious maid confronted her in the 
oval mirror; she touched her hair, pulled out the 
crushed laces at her breast, her heart quickening 
with excitement and indignation. 

She swept to the door. Just so would she sail 
down to sup with the Spaniard. Lud, she might 
even flirt a little to punish Carew, the presumptuous 
popinjay. She would — 

Her hand fell on the latch. The door was locked 
from the outside. 

Don Carlos received Ralph’s apologies with an 
amazed hauteur that rather alarmed the younger 
man. Madam refused his invitation? Impossible! 
She must have misunderstood. 


MY LADY APRIL 


146 

Carew was desolated, but in fact, Madam was 
excessively tired and in no state to meet so dis- 
tinguished a traveler as the gentleman from Spain. 

Supper began in an atmosphere of frigid polite- 
ness, but with the wine and walnuts Don Carlos 
relaxed a little; eyeing young Carew from the 
shadows of his black wig; leaning languidly in his 
tilted chair; his hand continually reaching for the 
bottle. But though he drank little he saw that his 
guest’s glass was never empty. 

Ralph considered him a very good fellow and re- 
called some of his European adventures that made 
the Spaniard chuckle and slap his knee. 

“There was a little girl in Berlin,” says Ralph 
fatuously. “A sweet jade, but — too plump — and 
silent! Faith, she kept her mouth that shut you’d 
be sworn her teeth fitted ill. But no I I made her 
show me one day. All her own and white as milk.” 

“In a silent woman,” returned the Spaniard sen- 
tentiously. “In a silent woman there is either in- 
effable goodness, or — the devil’s own wiles I” 

“Gad, that’s true!” Young Carew found his 
glass brimming and drank carefully. The wine was 
too good to spill, a heady wine, full flavored. He 
hardly remembered to have tasted such before. Odd, 
to find a vintage in an out o’ the way spot like this ! 
He finished his glass. “That’s true,” he repeated 
owlishly. “They’re deep, deuced deep!” 

“A man of your experience should be — ha — 
safe.” Don Carlos heaved a sigh. “Now I was 
brought up rustically.” 


THE GOAT AND COMPASSES 147 

‘^You astound me, sir!” exclaims Ralph. 

‘‘ Tis true. A boyhood passed among our vine- 
yards, tied — as you say — to a woman’s apron-string 
— oh, ’tis the damnedest dull dog’s life! Me, I fall 
victim to every single woman I meet, and some — 
helas! — who are not single. Senor, you drink 
nothing.” He refilled Ralph’s glass. '‘You did 
well to keep your wife above-stairs! Well for me, 
that is!” He laughed tipsily. "I make no doubt 
she’s a paragon of all the virtues, hey? O la, la! 
These English women, all ice!” 

Young Carew chuckled. "Oh, as to that, sir, you 
mistake. We are, in fact, eloping. Miss an’t wed 
yet, though she thinks to be, to-morrow.” 

"Ah ! Manana, manana! Es eterna duracion la 
de aquesta tu manana! So you’re for London, 
senor? A three days’ journey — ” 

" ’Twill serve my turn,” said young Carew 
thickly, made to rise, and subsided again into his 
seat. "Rat me!” he hiccoughed. "This wine o’ 
yours, sir, m — monstrous heady!” 

"You find it so?” Don Carlos rose in some con- 
cern. "Let me give you an arm, senor.” He 
pulled the young fellow to his feet and steadied him 
a moment. "Now, shall we advance? Where lies 
your room?” 

'‘The — the Whi’ Roe,” chuckled Ralph, lurch- 
ing forward. "Mos’ ’propriate. Upstairs, first 
on righ’. Got key somewhere, he, he ! Made sure 
of her!” He halted at the head of the stair to 
fumble in a waistcoat pocket, and the key dropped 


148 


MY LADY APRIL 


from his shaking fingers to the polished floor. 

Don Carlos swooped upon it, and rising, shot 
out his left fist and caught young Carew beneath 
the ear. The lad went down like an ox and lay 
as one dead. 

Don Carlos bent above him for an instant, lis- 
tened at the head of the stairs; and then fitting the 
key into the painted door of the White Roe, opened 
it, entered swiftly, and locked it behind him. 


CHAPTER XV 


ALARUMS 

M ISS FORREST was in tears upon the bed 
and sat up startled, clutching at her dis- 
ordered dress. 

The candles on the dresser showed her, motion- 
less against the door, a tall figure all in black : black 
cloak, black riding boots buckled with steel, straight 
black brows, black curls falling closely about a 
swarthy face. 

A shriek died in her throat; she stared, marvel- 
ing that his eyes were shut. 

“Child,"’ said the Spaniard, smiling, “are ye 
abed?” 

“N-no!” gasped Dorothy. 

He opened laughing dark eyes and swept the 
heavy wig from his head. 

“Merodach!” she cried, and slid to the floor, 
pattering over to him in silk-clad feet. “Merodach ? 
I thought you — ” 

“So did Mr. Carew!” said Merodach. “My dis- 
guise is a good one. Quick, on with your cloak 
— your shoes — ” He strode to the window. 
“We’ve no time to spare. Carew’ll recover con- 
sciousness, and — ” 

“You’ve fought?” 


149 


150 


MY LADY APRIL 


‘'Gad, no, child,” he soothed her. “I floored 
him as I floored Barty Griggs — as Fd floor any 
man who meant you ill — ” 

“111?” she cried. “Mr. Carew means no ill, what 
d’you — ?” 

“Zoons, there’s no time for explanation.” 

“You must explain,” insisted the girl. “I eloped 
with him. Why should I leave him now?” 

For an instant Merodach hesitated. “Where was 
he taking you?” he said at length. 

“Where? To Winterbourne, to my cousin’s, un- 
til we could be wed.” 

“He lied,” said Merodach, and as she cried out 
indignantly, “Child, you must trust me. ’Fore 
God I’ll tell you all when we’re safe out o’ this. 
He may recover at any minute, and — I’d not will- 
ingly fight him. Come, your cloak — O lud, you 
will have it? I tell you he boasted to me that he 
was taking you to London, and he laughed at the 
idea of marriage, and — he had the key of your 
door.” 

“O God!” sobbed Dorothy, dry-eyed, swaying 
under the blow. “Is this true ?” 

“I swear it. I stunned him as he tried to fit 
the key in the lock. He lies just outside — shall 
I show you?” 

“No!” cried the girl, distractedly fumbling with 
her shoes. “No, I’ll believe you, Merodach. What 
shall I do?” 

“Come with me to Winterbourne.” 

Sobbing, trembling, she suffered herself to be 


ALARUMS 


151 

lifted to the window-sill, and huddled upon the 
broad ledge, waited while the gypsy dropped her 
bag on to the gallery and climbed out. It was all 
he could do to squeeze through the square opening. 
She followed; was set upon her feet and led down 
the outer stair into the courtyard. The chaise was 
standing beneath the dark archway. 

Merodach hurried into it, made her sit upon the 
floor and covered her with the traveling rugs. Then 
he crossed to the stables and knocked upon the 
half-open door. 

An ostler sat up among a litter of straw, rubbing 
dazed eyes. 

“Where’s Mr. Carew’s post-boy?” asked Mero- 
dach, leaning forward into the dark stable. 

“Asleep in the loft, sir. He’s dead beat.” 

“Don’t waken him. Put fresh horses into the 
chaise. A guinea if you’re quick and quiet.” 

Accustomed to the vagaries of carriage-folk, the 
lad obeyed without question. 

Merodach went back to Dorothy. “Give me one 
of your slippers,” said he. “Have you an old one 
you can spare? Good. Can you find it?” He 
opened her valise upon the seat, and kneeling, she 
dug out a pink satin slipper, high-heeled, dainty. 

He stood regarding it for an instant with a whim- 
sical smile. “This is the oldest you have, child?” 

“Indeed, yes. ’Tis near worn through. I’ll not 
need it.” 

“No,” said he a little grimly. “You’ll not need 
it.” He went out under the archway and em- 


MY LADY APRIL 


152 

bedded it in the mud of the road. Then, hidden 
in the shadows, he stripped off cloak, coat and 
breeches, and stood clad in the shabby brown clothes 
he habitually wore. Rolling the wig in the dis- 
guise he tossed the bundle into the hay-mow above 
the arch, hid his jewels in a belt beneath his shirt, 
and from the roof of the chaise took the postilion’s 
whip and cap. 

The ostler ran out leading a horse in either hand. 

“Have you a good memory, boy?” asked Mero- 
dach, buckling the off traces. 

Tom Ostler caught the clink of coins. “That’s 
as mebbe, sir,” said he, grinning. 

“Then let this drown it! You’ve been asleep in 
your stable since supper-time.” 

“Very good, sir.” 

“You saw nothing and heard nothing.” 

“Not me, y’r honor! Thank’ee sir. Yes, I do 
sleep uncommon heavy, to be sure.” He led the 
chaise out into the highway; watched with profes- 
sional appreciation as Merodach looked his horses 
over and got to saddle; and stood for a moment 
polishing the gold in his hand before he buttoned 
it into a pocket. Then, the road being empty, he 
stooped to examine something in the mud, swore 
beneath his breath, and returned chuckling to his 
bed in the straw. 

“Ecod,” said he. “Here’s a pretty go !” 

The chambermaid, remembering madam’s supper 
tray, ran upstairs to fetch it, and discovered Mr. 


ALARUMS 


153 

Carew prone upon the door-sill of the White Roe, 
and bleeding from a scratch upon the temple. 

Her cries brought the landlord, and between them 
they revived the unconscious gallant and helped him 
into an unoccupied bedroom across the landing. 

'‘Wha — wha’s happened?” said he, fingering his 
jaw; staring at a spot of blood upon his coat. 

“Why, sir, Bess found ye a-layin’ full length as 
it might be dead. It scared her proper.” Foster 
handed a sponge. “I take it the wine got into your 
head, sir, an’ ye fell an’ cut yersel’ agen the door- 
frame like.” 

Ralph grunted, feeling meanwhile in his pocket. 
“Where the deuce is that — where’s my wife?” 

Bess offered to fetch her; went to the White Roe, 
found the door fast; bent to call through the key- 
hole and saw that the key was in the lock. 

“Madam’s locked her door,” says she, return- 
ing. 

“Demme !” muttered Ralph. “That’s odd ! I 
could ha’ sworn I had the key.” He got to his feet 
and pulled himself together. This must be looked 
into. He perfectly remembered locking Doll’s door 
before he went to sup with the Spaniard. Vaguely 
he remembered that affable stranger had armed him 
up the stair. What followed ? 

“Well,” said he, ruminating. “She must be 
asleep. I can get into the room from the gallery.” 

Dogged by the innkeeper and the intrigued maid 
he went below into the court, and up the outer stair- 


154 


MY LADY APRIL 


case to the gallery. The end window gaped blackly. 

‘This should be the room,” he said, peering. 
“ Tis devilish awkward. My shoulders — ” 

Foster touched him. “Let me climb in, sir. Fm 
smaller nor you. Madam won’t hear me, an’ I’ll un- 
lock the door. Bess, take his honor by way o’ the 
Lion. ’Tis empty to-night, an’t it?” He disap- 
peared, wriggling through the aperture, and Carew, 
waiting while the girl unlocked the Lion, fancied 
he heard some vehicle drive off along the road, and 
hesitated, vaguely uneasy. 

“This way, sir,” said Bess, plucking at his sleeve. 

He turned, still a little dazed, unable to collect 
his thoughts; and went through the empty bed- 
chamber to the landing, to find Foster in the door- 
way of the White Roe. 

“My lady an’t here, seemin’ly,” said he, displac- 
ing a bob wig to scratch his pate. 

“What?” cried young Carew, breaking past him 
into the room. “Not here?” 

“De-camped!” chuckled Foster, scenting mys- 
tery. 

“Fled?” shrieked Bess, all of a flutter. “Fled! 
Lawks, where’s she gone?” She ran about the 
room searching the tumbled bed, the empty 
closets, commenting aloud: “Not been slep’ in, 
though she lay down. I’ll wager she ne’er un- 
dressed, no, not she! A hairpin — powder — why, 
look, she eat next to nothing.” 

“Dear, dear, what waste o’ good vittles,” de- 
plored the host, examining the neglected supper tray. 


ALARUMS 


155 


“The pillow’s wet!” cried Bess. “Lud, what’d 
she to do, weeping?” She glared across the four- 
poster at young Carew, disconsolate in the midst 
of the room. “Feel that! She must ha’ sobbed 
for hours!” 

The indignant girl thrust into his hands the pil- 
low, still warm, fragrant with lavender, wet with 
Dorothy’s tears. 

“Gad,” said young Carew. “What a brute I’ve 
been!” 

A lump rose in his throat. So she had lain there 
weeping while he drank with the Spaniard. He 
touched the damp linen, laid the pillow on the bed 
and went out with never a word. 

Foster and the chambermaid gaped at one an- 
other. 

“Where’s mossoo?” said the girl suddenly. 

“Which ? The Spanish lord ? He ain’t no mos- 
soo, Bess, ’tis a French word, for sure. He be set 
in the coffee-room, a-drinkin’ that wine he brought 
hisself, as if my best Oporto weren’t good enough 
for him. Where else should a be?” 

“Go see!” cried Bess. “I’ll lay he’s at the bottom 
o’ this, the black-a-vised furriner!” 

Alarmed, Foster trotted downstairs, searched the 
coffee-room, the tap, the kitchens; hurried out into 
the court. “Tom? Tom! Where be that whelp? 
Tom, I say!” 

A snore from the stables. 

“Thomas Ostler! Hi, waken up, ye lout! 
Where be the furriner?” 


MY LADY APRIL 


156 

Tom Ostler woke artistically, yawned, and blinked 
up at his master. 

‘‘Where be the Spanisher?” reiterated Foster. 

“Lor’ lumme,” gasped the lad. “What’s to do?’’ 

“He an’t in the house,” bellowed the landlord. 
“Where be he?” 

“Good lack, master, I dunno. I an’t set eyes 
on un since he come. What’s he stole?” 

“Stole? Stole yer gran’mother! He’s de- 
camped, seemin’ly, an’ his score not paid. Dang 
me, no more’s my lady’s!” Foster whirled about, 
counted the horses in the stalls and thrust his head 
into the yard. “Plague take it, the shay be gone!” 
he cried. 

The lad retreated hurriedly beneath Grey Drake’s 
manger. “Lumme, guv’nor, ’tan’t no manner o’ use 
a-kickin’ o’ me,” he urged. “I bin asleep this hour 
an’ more. ’Ware Drake’s heels, sir! He an’t safe 
if he’s scart!” Grinning, he watched Foster scut- 
tle across the court and out into the road. “ ’Cod,” 
muttered Tom. “Now let un find the slipper!” 

But young Carew had already found it, and was 
standing in the highway turning it about in the dim 
light of the moon, his eyes thick with tears. 

“What now, sir?” panted the host, coming to a 
halt and staring. 

“Her shoe,” says poor Ralph with a gulp. “She 
went this way, landlord. I must after her. She 
can’t have gone far, lacking a shoe.” 

“But what o’ my bill? I’m like to be ruinated, 
I am! The Spanisher ’s gone wi’out — ” 


ALARUMS 


157 


‘^What?’’ cried young Carew and sprang at the 
startled host. ^Tor God’s sake, man, speak! Don 
Carlos?” 

“Leggo my windpipe,” gasped Foster, stagger- 
ing. “How can I speak when ye — Don Carlos 
an’t in the house, an’ what’s more, your shay be gone, 
an’ — ” 

“A horse, then, you dotard 1” cried Ralph. “Why 
couldn’t you tell me at once? A horse!” He 
darted to the stables, shouting, and Grey Drake 
lashed out from the nearest stall. 

“Mind, sir! Mind his heels!” Tom Ostler 
pushed young Carew out of danger. “Ye startled 
him. He’s as nervous as a kitten; he’ll brain any 
as ventures in, sir. Wait a bit. Soho, boy — soho, 
lad! Gently then.” 

Grey Drake looked sideways, lowered his wicked 
head and let fly again, and Ralph turned and ran 
from the yard, hardly knowing what he did, con- 
scious only that Dolly was gone from him out into 
the night with the sinister Spaniard. 

Was she afoot? The slipper seemed to suggest 
it. Was she driving? The absence of his chaise 
was significant. Dulled by the wine he had drunk 
and the blow he had received his brain refused to 
work. He had no plan, no definite design. He 
could think of nothing but Dolly, her golden hair, 
her trust in him, her tear-soaked pillow. 

Sobbing, he ran on, dazed, crestfallen, the pink 
satin slipper in his pocket bumping against his thigh. 

Gad, if only he might find her and make amends! 


CHAPTER XVI 


EXCURSIONS 

M ERODACH drove rapidly until the road, 
climbing through a pine wood, split in 
two and wandered away across a waste 
of heather-clad turf. Here he turned aside and, dis- 
mounting, led the chaise into the shadows of the 
trees and halted it back to the road, so that a chance 
movement of the horses would not betray their hid- 
ing-place. 

He put his head in at the open window, prepared 
for tears, hysterics, frenzy : a gentle breathing came 
from the muffled figure on the floor : cuddled among 
the rugs Dorothy slept like a child worn out with 
weeping; her hair glimmered in the darkness, one 
pale hand pressed the rough woolen away from 
her cheek. 

The gypsy drew back a pace or two, hesitated, 
and at length walked to the edge of the wood and 
dropped upon the dry needles in the shelter of a 
stunted fir. There would be time enough for dis- 
cussion. Let the child have her sleep out. 

He lay upon his face, chin propped on one palm, 
listening, watching, alert for a movement on the 
dim road, a sound from the waiting chaise, 

158 


EXCURSIONS 


159 


Nothing stirred for half an hour; then from a 
distance came the thud of running feet drawing 
rapidly nearer : a man stumbled through the chequer 
of moonlight and shadow, and sobbing, panting, 
was gone. 

Merodach stood up to see which way he took, 
and satisfied upon that point, returned to the chaise 
and opened the door. 

A sleepy murmur reached him. ‘'Ralph ? What 
was it? I was almost — Oh!” 

“We must talk. Miss Forrest,” said Merodach. 
“Will you come sit in the wood, or shall I climb 
in?” 

“Fll get out. Oh, how delicious it smells! 
You’ve not put the steps — ” 

He waited for no steps but lifted her to earth, 
reached for a rug and led the way to a moonlit 
patch of turf. Here he tucked her up securely, and 
sitting down at arm’s length started with his en- 
counter with Celia and the paper dolls, and told her 
everything that had occurred. 

Silent, wondering, Dorothy listened: she asked 
no questions, she expressed no disbelief ; it was im- 
possible to doubt the gypsy’s sober truth. 

Then at his desire she told her side of the story; 
but coming to their arrival at the Goat and Com- 
passes, broke off and hid her face in trembling 
hands. 

“And now?” said Merodach gently, his eyes on 
her bent head. 

She looked up. “What now? It is for you to 


i6o MY LADY APRIL 

say. I trust you, Merodach. Ah, dear God — I 
trusted him !” 

“Mr. Carew passed us in search of you half an 
hour ago. Judging from his pace he can’t last long. 
We shall overtake him within two miles.” 

She sat upright, staring through the green gloom. 
“You mean to overtake him? What then? I 
thought you — you — ” 

“I’ve a mind to discover Mr. Ralph’s intentions.” 

“Intentions? You told me he — ” 

“Ah, but he’s had a lesson since then!” Mero- 
dach smiled into her bewildered eyes. “He was sob- 
bing as he ran up the road.” 

“Poor Ralph!” said she, and wrung her hands. 
“Poor lad! He thinks he’s lost me.” 

“You’d forgive him? You’d offer him another 
chance?” exclaimed Merodach. 

“Lud, yes ! I love him.” And truly she thought 
she did. 

The gypsy fell silent, plucking at the turf, pon- 
dering woman’s amazing capacity for forgiveness, 
heartsick at the inevitable result. He could read 
young Carew. 

Forgive him, and the mercurial rascal would dry 
his tears, forget all his good resolutions and be- 
come more selfish and domineering than before. 
Part them, and Dorothy would nurse her broken 
heart, would remember all Ralph’s engaging ways 
and forget all his shortcomings. Nothing remained 
but propinquity — and disillusion, 


EXCURSIONS 


II 6 1 

He sighed and got to his feet. 

‘'You have a plan?*' said Dorothy, casting off her 
rug. 

“Half a one. Life's but an unrehearsed play, 
and if your fellow-actor gives a wrong cue you're 
out unless you're quick to gag. I never elaborate 
a plot. Set your scene and trust to luck! 'Tis 
the only way." 

“And what part have I?" said she, laughing. 
He lifted her back into the chaise. “For the present, 
child, you’re merely an interested spectator." 

She protested at that, but he shook his head, smil- 
ing at her eagerness. “How can I tell you what 
will happen when I don’t know myself? Lie hid, 
until your cue comes. I’ll knock on the door when 
you may appear." 

He led the chaise back to the road, mounted, 
and pushed on, following the way young Carew had 
taken; until a couple of miles farther a disconsolate 
figure trudging with hands in breeches pockets, 
hailed Merodach as he jogged by. 

“Hi !" shouted young Carew. 

“Hallo?" returned the gypsy, reining in. 

“Can you tell me where we are, fellow?" 

“Shotover Heath?" suggested Merodach glibly. 
If young Carew were lost one name was as good as 
another. 

“How far is’t to the next village?" 

Merodach appeared to ponder. “Best part o' five 
mile, sir," said he at length. 


i 62 


MY LADY APRIL 


Ralph swore. ‘^Can you give me a lift?’* 

“Well, ye can ride on the perch behind if ye 
please. The shay be occipied, like.” 

“Who’s within?” 

The gypsy lowered his voice. “ ’Tis a body, sir,” 
said he solemnly. 

Young Carew recoiled. “W-what?” 

“A body. The body of a female, sir. Ye’ll 
not care to ride inside, I know, but ye’re welcome 
to perch — ” 

“Good lord, are you an undertaker,” 

“Hardly that, sir,” deprecated Merodach, touch- 
ing his cap. “I took on this job to obleege a lady. 
Tell’ee what, sir, ye can ride my horse an’ I’ll make 
shift on t’other un. There’s no manner o’ haste.” 

“But there is! I’m in the deuce of a hurry!” 

“Ye warn’t makin’ more’n two an’ a half mile 
an hour when we came up,” said the gypsy, sliding 
to earth. “We’ll double that, an’ go easy. Gi’ 
us yer foot, master. Up ye go!” 

Carew found himself astride the near horse before 
he could expostulate. 

“Stick yer foot on the pole, sir. Ye an’t got 
no leg-iron, an’ these two bosses be that lovin’ they 
fair prop theirsel’s up agen each other.” 

Merodach pulled his cap over his eyes and 
mounted the off horse, sitting sideways, his shoul- 
der turned to young Carew. He reached for the 
reins, clucked to his beasts and they moved off 
at a jog-trot. 


EXCURSIONS 163 

‘Travelin' late, sir,’’ began Merodach amiably. 
** ’Tis a bit risky, like.” 

‘‘Why?” asked young Carew. 

“Footpads, sir. Thick as rabbits hereabout. 
Toby-men, too. One stopped a coach las’ week, 
very gentleman-like, an’ returned all the passengers’ 
coppers. Come up, Dandy, you lazy oaf!” 

“Then I’m lucky to have fallen in with you,” said 
Ralph. “You’re armed, of course?” 

“Well as to that, sir, I be an’ I bain’t, as 
you might say. I’ve pistols in they holsters, but 
dang me if they’ll go off. What’s the odds? 
There be nought of valoo to steal, an’ if we’re 
stopped they’ll let us pass, seein’ we carry a 
body.” 

“O demmit. I’d forgot the corpse!” muttered 
Carew with a furtive glance over his shoulder. 

“Oh, ye needn’t worrit, sir,” says Merodach 
coolly. “ ’Twarn’t a case of infection. A broken 
heart, sir. That’s it. Just a broken heart. Plaguy 
sad, sir. Come up, Dapple!” 

“Did — did she — drown herself?” stammered 
Ralph, struck with sudden compunction. 

“Lord no, sir! Just a broken heart. Dozens 
on ’em go that way. They doctors like to put long 
words to it, but ye can take it from me ’tis nought 
but plain broken heart. Lovesick, sir. Pined 
away. That’s it. Come up, Dapple!” 

Young Carew moved uneasily in his saddle but 
said nothing. 

Merodach, sitting slackly, rolled to the motion 


164 


MY LADY APRIL 


of his horse and continued to moralize, conscious 
of his passenger’s acute discomfort. 

‘Tove’s a queer thing, sir, an’t it? Nine times 
out o’ ten ’tis all misplaced. The lass wastes her- 
sel’ on a lad as don’t care two straws for her — or 
t’other way up. An’ the tenth time if so be they’re 
both fond, you can bet your boots it’ll all go wrong. 
Summat seems to have a spite agen lovers. If 
they don’t wed they pines away, an’ if they do wed 
— well, it don’t seem to turn out all they’d hoped 
for, like. Nine times out o’ ten they forget all 
their courtin’ days, an’ fratch like cat an’ dog, an’ 
the tenth time you can bet your boots — ” 

'‘O damn you, hold your tongue !” snarled young 
Carew. 

'‘Very good, sir,” returned Merodach, and fell to 
humming a mournful ballad of a maid in "Bedlam” 
wailing her banished lover. 

They plodded on a while, until of a sudden Carew 
destirred himself. 

"Demmit, what a fool I am!” he cried. "Pull 
up! She can’t have come so far — I’ve missed her!” 

"Anon, sir?” said Merodach, yawning. 

"Pull up. I must go back. "I’ve missed her — ” 

"Mebbe you was searchin’ for some one?” sug- 
gested Merodach brilliantly. 

"Yes. A — in fact — a young lady. Pull up, you 
dolt, and let me dismount.” 

"Was it by any chance the young ’ooman as van- 
ished from the Goat an’ Compasses?” 


EXCURSIONS 165 

“Yes, yes!” cried Ralph. “How d’ye know? 
Have ye news of her?’^ 

“I come that way myself,” pondered Merodach. 
“Old Ben were in the devil of a fantigue, losin’ 
two customers an’ ne’er a sixpence in payment.” 

“Two? What of the Spaniard? I thought he’d 
run off with my chaise — I thought — good gad, I 
don’t know what to think — I believe I’m going mad 
— I found her slipper — ” 

“Spaniard, sir?” said Merodach, interrupting 
Carew’s incoherent exclamations. “Spaniard? 
Oh, he don’t come into the tale at all. Ye see, the 
young couple druv up as it might be my lord an’ 
lady journeyin’ home from Bath. But it seems they 
warn’t wed, sir, an’ the young man got a bit hasty, 
as young men will, an’ the young ’ooman smelt a 
rat, d’ye see, an’ bolted. Small blame to her, poor 
thing. Ben’s a good fellow in his way. Soft as 
butter where a petticoat’s concerned. Swears he’ll 
horsewhip the young rake-hell as caused all the up- 
set — O lumme, sir! You’ll be him!” 

'‘Horsewhip ?” shouted Carew, beside himself with 
anger and impatience. “What the hell are you driv- 
ing at?” 

‘‘Driving, sir? We be bound for Nether Wallop, 
to be sure. Come up, Dapple! Ah, sir. You do 
oathe like a guardsman. A fair eddication to 
hearken to you, sir, that it be! Most instructive. 
Now what I says is, a new curse or two alius comes 
in handy — Oh, no offense, yer honor, no offense !” 


1 66 MY LADY APRIL 

He listened critically until Carew’s breath gave out, 
and then: 

‘‘So old Ben were wrong for once,” he pondered, 
and continued with' a quick glance at Ralph’s humped 
shoulders, “Old Ben can’t abide to be nay-said. 
Swore you was a- wrongin’ of the young ’ooman. 
Called you every bad name under the sun, sir. Gay 
deceiver, ah, an’ worse nor that! Fair laid his 
tongue to it, he did. An’ here ye be a-huntin’ for 
the poor lass, that put about! Come up. Dandy!” 

The clop-clop of the horses’ feet punctuated a 
strained silence. 

“The question is,” said Ralph at last, “did Miss 
Forrest — is she — afoot or driving?” 

“Ah!” returned Merodach profoundly. “That’s 
the question. Was it to be Gretna Green, sir?” 

“No, we were for London.” 

“Anon, sir?” queried Merodach, wondering if 
Dorothy could hear. 

“London!” shouted Ralph. 

“Ah. A powerful wicked place, they tell me, but 
more convenient nor Gretna, by a mile or two. An’ 
if so be as ye come across the young lady, sir, I’ll 
be proud to drive ye to church, once I’ve disposed of 
the body.” 

“There’ll be time enough to talk of weddings 
when I’ve found her,” said Carew sulkily. “Pull 
up, I tell you. I must go back.” 

Merodach drew rein at the crest of a little hill 
where a flood of pale light shone through a gap 


EXCURSIONS 


167 


in the trees that bordered the road. The moon was 
at the full : the horses’ breath swirled past them in 
misty wreaths : from a distant village came the slow 
tolling of a bell. 

“Eleven,” said Merodach, glancing at the sky. 
“Whoa, lad!” He dismounted, passed the chaise 
door, slapped it with the flat of his hand and went 
round to young Carew, who with his right leg across 
the saddle-bow was rubbing cramped muscles into 
use. 

For the first time the two men were face to face. 
Merodach laughed, lifted his head, took off his cap. 

“So we meet again, Mr. Carew !” 

Ralph sat as if turned to stone. “Gad!” he 
said at length. “ ’Twas you ! I fancied I knew 
your voice, but — what the devil brings you here?” 

“Business,” returned Merodach airily. “I’ve a 
living to get, one way or t’other.” 

“Pho! Carting dead bodies!” sneered Carew. 

Merodach shrugged. 

“But you came past the inn? You’ve news of 
her?” 

“Of Miss Forrest? Maybe. I’ll tell you noth- 
ing until I know your intentions.” 

“Gad’s life, what’s the girl to you?” 

“A woman to be protected,” said Merodach 
grimly. 

Young Carew slithered from his saddle, settled 
his cravat and shook his coat skirts into place. 
“Now,” said he. “You’ll tell me where she is.” 


i68 


MY LADY APRIL 


He set his jaw obstinately. The night air and his 
unwonted exertions had sobered him completely. 
Here was no blubbering boy, disappointed in his 
love-chase, but a man of affairs, arrogant, very cer- 
tain of himself. 

“You intend to wed her, sir?” insisted Mero- 
dach. 

“ ^Tis no business of yours what I intend. She’s 
mine. I took her out of the Bradley house while 
you and Cavanagh sat biting your nails and won- 
dering how to do it ! I — ” 

“You promised to carry her to Winterbourne.” 

“Well?” 

“Yet this very night you boasted that you were 
bound for London — you scoffed at the idea of mar- 
riage — you had the key of her door !” 

Young Carew sprang at the gypsy, but Merodach 
caught him by the shoulders, shook him to and fro 
and flung him off. 

“Gad!” panted Ralph. “Were you a gentleman 
I’d kill you!” 

Merodach laughed. “You have my permission to 
try, your sword against my bare fists. You young 
whelp! Come, take your whipping!” 

Carew swore, reached for his sword, discovered 
an empty slit in his coat skirts and remembered 
that before sitting down to supper he had hung 
the weapon upon the back of his chair. Impotent, 
fuming, he stood watching the gypsy rolling back 
his cuffs. 


EXCURSIONS 


169 

*‘You cad!” said he at length. “You knew I 
was unarmed.” 

“Then we fight equally,” smiled Merodach, ad- 
vancing. 

But this was more than Miss Forrest could sup- 
port in silence. 

“You are not to fight!” she cried, suddenly ap- 
pearing at the chaise window. “I forbid it!’' 

“Doll?” gasped Carew, and made toward her. 

She put out an arresting hand. “Keep your dis- 
tance, sir. I think you owe me an apology.” 

“Gad, ’tis you are in the wrong!” cried Ralph 
hotly. “You elope with me one night, and the next 
you run off with a — ” 

Merodach slapped him across the mouth. “Hold 
your foul tongue, Carew !” said he. 

A sudden mad jealousy seized the lad. He had 
rescued Dolly from the Bradley house, she was his. 
What right had this vagabond to interfere? He 
struck out rather wildly, and as the gypsy side- 
stepped he overreached himself and stumbled for- 
ward. 

Merodach gripped him, lifted him, and tossed him 
into the tangled hedgerow. 

From her post of vantage at the chaise window 
Dorothy watched the whole undignified fracas, and 
frowned to hide an insurgent smile as Ralph extri- 
cated himself from a blackthorn bush. No one was 
hurt, and it was vastly romantic to be fought over, 
even if one champion were no more than a gypsy. 


170 


MY LADY APRIL 


She watched, bright-eyed, breathing rapidly, eager to 
lose no fleeting thrill of emotion. 

Back to the chaise, Merodach stood guard over 
her. Shin deep in the dry ditch young Carew es- 
caped from the embraces of a too friendly bramble ; 
and none noticed a couple of masked men who had 
crept upon them from the opposite hedge. 

A curt '‘Stand and deliver!” startled all three. 

Merodach, looking down the black barrel of a pis- 
tol, threw up his hands. Dorothy squealed. Ralph, 
rooted in his ditch, gave a shout of triumph. 

“Rescued!” he bawled. “Good lads! A guinea 
each if you put the fellow out o’ the way. We’ve 
been held up by him — ^you saw him throw me in the 
hedge, I—” 

“O fie !” cried Dorothy. “Shame on you, Ralph, 
shame!” She wrenched open the door and leaped 
to the ground, pressing Merodach back against the 
chaise; her body, her outstretched arms shielding 
him. For an instant her shoulders were against 
his breast, her hair brushed his lips. Instinctively 
Merodach shrank away ; put her from him ; 
his heart pounding, his throat dry, every pulse 
in his body leaping with a strange and fearful 
exultation. 

“Child,” he whispered, “let be. I’m safe enough.” 

“Little fool!” muttered young Carew. “You’ve 
ruined our one chance.” 

The two footpads stood bewildered, staring from 
the dishevelled gallant to the supposed postilion and 
the panting, terror-stricken lady. 


EXCURSIONS 


171 


‘‘What’s to do?” said one, approaching the fel- 
low who still covered Merodach with his pistol. 
“What d’ye make o’ this, Greg?” 

“Make? Od rot ye for a brainless swab! Leave 
’em to fight it out an’ get aboard. The nags are 
fresh. We’ll show the preventives a clean pair o’ 
heels an’ make Southhampton ’fore mornin’. Aloft 
wi’ ye, lubber, an’ I’ll in the cuddy!” 

The one clambered awkwardly to saddle, the other 
leaped into the chaise, stumbled on the heap of rugs 
and fell cursing. His pfistol exploded harmlessly. 
Merodach held him down with one hand while with 
the other he dragged Dorothy’s valise from the 
seat and flung a wrap after it. Then with a yell 
he slapped the astonished Dapple on the flank and 
sprang backward as the chaise lurched away: the 
lumbering vehicle rounded a bend in the road and 
disappeared, one door banging, the footpad bumping 
in his saddle. 

Aghast at this unexpected turn of events, young 
Carew stood staring, anger swamped for the mo- 
ment in amazement. 

“What the deuce d’ye mean by that?” he cried. 
“You’ve let ’em go!’ ” 

Merodach picked up the valise, swung it and threw 
it over the hedge. The rug went after it. Then 
climbing up the bank he found a gap between two 
hazel stubs and called to Dorothy to follow. 

“What in the devil’s name are ye at ?” demanded 
Ralph irritably. 

“Those men are flying from justice,” Merodach 


172 


MY LADY APRIL 


told him. ‘‘IVe no wish to be caught by their 
pursuers. They’re smugglers, likely. We’ll get out 
o’ the road. Come!” He leaned down from the 
hedge, caught the girl’s outstretched hands and pulled 
her after him through the opening. A rip of cash- 
mere told of a torn skirt. Dorothy never heeded. 
Breathless with excitement and anticipation she 
clung to Merodach’s hand. This was adventure in- 
deed! 

Grumbling, Ralph followed, and found himself in 
a ploughed field veiled with the fine, blue-green 
growth of young wheat. Shouldering the bag the 
gypsy turned along the hedge, reached the corner 
and followed a little track that ran beside the edge 
of the furrows. Dorothy stumbled after him. 
Young Carew, told off to carry the rug, floundered 
behind. 

In silence they traversed the field, crossed a pas- 
ture, and came through a ragged coppice to common 
land dotted with yew and juniper, gray beneath 
the moon. 

Merodach paused for an instant to look about, and 
then set out again, halting at last in a little hollow 
sheltered by a ring of trees. Here he dropped his 
burden, took the rug from young Carew, who was 
preparing to use it himself, and spreading it, mo- 
tioned to Dorothy that she should rest. She sank 
down readily enough, her back against the bag, her 
fingers linked about her knees, watching eagerly as 
Merodach gathered an armful of dry twigs and small 
sticks and nicked away with flint and steel. 


EXCURSIONS 


173 


The glowing sulphur match lit up his brown face, 
clean-cut, serene, quietly amused. He knelt over 
the fire until it was burning merrily, and then, sit- 
ting back on his heels, unbuckled Dorothy’s shoes 
and held them to dry. 

“Mud’s colder than water,” said he coolly, al- 
though the touch of her silken ankles had set his 
heart racing again. 

“Demmed officious in you,” objected young Ca- 
re w. 

“O Ralph!” cried Dorothy. “How can you be 
so — my feet might have gone cold for all you 
cared I” 

“Mine are like ice!” retorted Ralph petulantly. 

“Then for heaven’s sake come dry them and be 
civil !” 

“Civil? Gad’s life! Civil! ’Tis all I can do to 
command myself !” burst out young Carew. “Here 
are we, miles from anywhere, without means of 
conveyance, without food, without shelter — all 
through this cursed interfering gypsy ! And you ask 
me to be civil ! ’Tis more than can be expected — ” 

“From you,” said Dorothy. 

“From any!” he cried. “You’re a sweet butter- 
tongued miss, an’t ye?” 

Dorothy bit her lip ; choked back her rising tears ; 
turned to the fire and Merodach. He looked up and 
held her glance and a sense of shame, of gratitude, 
of peace and utter security stole over her with the 
gaze of his steady eyes. 

Young Carew squatted beside the fire, took off his 


174 


MY LADY APRIL 


shoes, propped them to dry and let his damp stocks 
ings steam. It was monstrous uncomfortable, but 
he would have died sooner than go barefoot before 
a lady. A three-cornered tear in one revealed the 
white skin beneath. He noticed it and swore, and 
taking a kerchief from his pocket solicitously 
dabbed at a small red scratch. 

None offered sympathy, and the silence remained 
unbroken save for the crackle of the fire. 

Warmed, rested, intrigued by her extraordinary 
predicament, Dorothy watched Merodach, cross- 
legged beside the fire ; and something in his pose re- 
minded her of that night of terror in the gaming 
house at Bath when he had made a fire and sat be- 
side it, talking to give her time to recover her com- 
posure. 

He had taken command of that situation with an 
ease that was comforting: she looked to him now 
for guidance, confident that all was well. 

They smiled at each other across the leaping 
flames, and somehow it suddenly seemed the most 
natural thing in the world to be there with Mero- 
dach, shut away from the blue darkness by that 
ring of orange light. 

^‘Zounds, what a night!” groaned Carew, squeez- 
ing a microscopic splinter from one finger. 

Dorothy tilted back her head to see the stars. 
“Heavenly!” she breathed, adrift in the pale glory 
of the Milky Way. 

“We’re in luck,” added Merodach.. “It might 
have, rained.” 


EXCURSIONS 


175 

may yet/' grunted Carew. ''Let’s push on 
for shelter.” 

"There’s no village within miles,” Merodach told 
him. "We can as well spend the rest o’ the night 
here as anywhere. Miss Forrest’s in no case for 
walking far.” 

"Gad, your shoes !” cried Ralph, staring. "How’s 
this? You lost one, and here you are with two!” 
He dragged the pink slipper from his pocket and 
slammed it on the ground vehemently. "I demand 
an explanation, miss! Let’s get to the bottom o’ 
this coil once and for all.” 

Dorothy caught Merodach’s eye. "I think, Mr. 
Carew, ’tis you who should be offering apologies, 
said she, with pretty dignity. "’Tis you who 
should be humbly craving pardon. O lud, wait — 
you unmannerly boy — wait and let me speak ! 
I consent to — to allow you to rescue me, be- 
lieving that you meant to take me down to Winter- 
bourne, trusting in your integrity, your honor. 
It seems I was deceived. You were for London. 
You had no intention of making me — your wife — ” 
Her voice broke. "O Ralph, ’twas shameless in 
you — ’twas cruel! Had I deserved that?” 

"Gad’s life, Doll, you’re glib! Who told ye that 
tale?” began Carew, staring uneasily. 

"Merodach!” sobbed Dolly, abandoning herself 
to sudden grief. 

"And you take his word for it before mine? 
What d’ye know of him? You’ve seen him but. 
once- — ” 


MY LADY APRIL 


176 

“I know him better than I do you/' cried the 
girl. “Merodach’s helped me before. I eloped with 
you the second day of our acquaintance!’' 

“What d’ye know of him?” repeated Ralph, ig- 
noring her interuption. “He's a common bully — 
a prize fighter. What’s he told you about me ? He 
knows nothing. For anything you can tell he’s de- 
ceiving you. To-morrow I’ll — ” 

“Ah, senor!” drawled Merodach, rolling big eyes. 
"'Manana, manana! This to-morrow of yours lasts 
for ever I” 

An oath died upon Ralph's lips: he sat rigid, 
frozen with surprise, his comely young face a 
ghastly mask in the yellow light of the fire. 
“You!” he whispered. “God!” Dazed, he stag- 
gered to his feet, glared from one to the other, 
mouthed something incoherent and plunged away 
into the thick darkness of the encircling trees. 

“Oh!” moaned Dorothy. “He’s gone!” 

“Faith,” said Merodach, “he’ll not go far, child. 
See, he’s forgot his shoes.” He turned round to 
face her, propped himself on one elbow and poked 
the fire with a forked stick. “Let him alone a while 
to nurse his wounded vanity. O lud, d’ye think he’s 
heart-broke? Not he!” He laughed and stretched 
one hand to pat her knee. “Let him alone, child. 
The poor fellow’s vastly mortified to find he’s been 
tridked. 'Tis no more than that. He’ll appear 
again with the dawn, never fear.” 

Strangely comforted by the touch of that brown 
hand, Dorothy mopped her eyes, discovered her ker- 


EXCURSIONS 


177 

chief too damp to be of further service, and naively 
spread it to dry. 

“W“what are we going to do?” said she. 

“Do? Make for Winterbourne.” 

^Walkr 

He nodded. “How else? What money have 
you ?” 

She emptied her purse into her lap. “Four shil- 
lings and a crooked sixpence.” 

“And Mr. Carew?” 

“I doubt he’s left the most of his valuables in his 
baggage at the inn. And you?” 

Merodach grinned and threw out an expressive 
hand. “So! We walk. You go with me, for 
safety. I go with you, as duenna. Mr. Carew ac- 
companies us because he’ll be too monstrous jealous 
to lose sight of you. At dawn we breakfast. You’ll 
pack your clothing into three bundles for easier 
carriage. I make two dozen clothes pegs — and we 
set out.” 

He prayed that she would not inquire why they 
did not go straight back to the Goat and Compasses 
to recover Ralph’s luggage and hire another vehicle. 
He required more time, more intimacy than ordi- 
nary circumstance would allow. Were he acting as 
postilion with Ralph and Dorothy tete-d-tete within 
the chaise, he could exercise no influence upon 
events, and young Carew would reinstate himself 
with nothing more palpable than promises. Mero- 
dach intended to elicit deeds. Hence the reference 
to clothes pegs. 


MY LADY APRIL 


178 

Dorothy followed this red herring. ‘^Clothes 
pegs?” echoed she, mystified. 

“Why not? 'Tis a means of livelihood not to be 
despised.” He drew a clasp knife and demonstrated 
with a piece of stick. “ Tisn’t the right wood, but 
’twill serve to show you.” 

She watched, fascinated with the play of his deft 
hands, until the finished peg lay in her lap. 

“Fve enough wire for to-day,” said he, repocket- 
ing the coil. “We can buy more, to-morrow. 
You're sleepy, child. Lie here, back to the blaze.” 
'He made a pillow of her valise, tucked the rug 
about her and piling on more wood, stretched him- 
self on the farther side of the fire, listening for any 
sound from the thicket into which young Carew had 
disappeared. 

But nothing stirred in the shadows. 

Ralph had flung himself down just out of ear- 
shot, and lay motionless, gripping the earth with 
fingers that for a time were unconscious of what 
they held. Then, when the first paroxysm of rage 
and dismay had passed, he became aware that twigs 
and small stones were crushed into his palms. He 
rolled over, shook his hands free of rubbish, and 
sitting propped against a trunk, clasped his ankles 
and ruminated sulkily, cursing his stupidity. 

If he had kept sober, none of these unpleasant- 
nessess had occurred. It was incredible that mere 
Oporto could have so bowled him over : Merodach 
must have put brandy in it, the swine. Who would 
have dreamed that he — ^that the Spaniard — medi- 


EXCURSIONS 


179 


tation merged into malediction. It was insufferable 
that a gentleman could not amuse himself without 
the intervention of a demmed pugilist. And Dolly? 
Gad, what did she expect, coming from such a 
place as Mother Bradley’s? Pshaw! Oh, damn 
the women ! 

Feeling himself to have been abominably used, he 
slid into an easier posture, yawned, cuddled down 
among the packed dead leaves and dozed, rousing 
some hours later, racked with cramps and in the 
very devil of a temper. 

Was ever heir to a baronetcy in such monstrous 
plight? Hatless, shoeless, supperless — no, by gad, 
he’d supped — ahem! Well, breakfastless, then. 
’Twas not to be meekly borne. 

He got cautiously to his feet, tripped over some 
obstruction and all but fell; then, stooping to see 
what had caught his toe, discovered a three-foot 
stick, heavy, knotted, damp but sound. For an 
instant he stood poising it in his hand, wavered, 
and crept stealthily from the shelter of the trees, 
treading softly in his stocking-feet across the little 
glade to the fire. 

Dorothy, curled up like a sleepy kitten, lay hud- 
dled in the rug. Merodach sprawled on the other 
side of the fire, and between them a heap of embers 
still glowed, surrounded by a ring of flaky white 
woodash. 

Still smarting under a sense of unmerited per- 
secution, blinded with anger, childishly spiteful, 
young Carew paused above the motionless figure of 


i8o 


MY LADY APRIL 


the gypsy, heaved up his club and swung it down- 
ward with all his force. But even as it fell Mero- 
dach flung himself to one side, grabbed his assail- 
ant’s ankles and brought him toppling to earth. 

The thud awoke Dorothy, who sat up blinking, 
peering through the dim light of earliest dawn, her 
eyes still heavy with sleep, her hands pushing back 
strands of her loosened hair. She discovered young 
Carew on his knees nursing a strained wrist, and 
Merodach breathing a little unevenly, tending the 
scattered fire. 

‘W-what was it?” she faltered, frightened at their 
silence. 

‘‘Nothing,” returned Merodach. “Mr. Carew 
brought in a log for the fire, and — fell over me. 
There’s no harm done.” He blew the embers into 
a blaze, arranged some dry sticks across them, os- 
tentatiously laid Ralph’s cudgel on the top, and 
glancing at the sky, suggested that it was almost 
time for breakfast. 

Carew took no sort of notice. Dorothy looked 
up, expectant. 

“Wait here for me,” Merodach said to her, and 
went off whistling. 

Carew took out his handkerchief and bound it 
round his wrist, endeavoring with his teeth and his 
free hand to tie the ends. 

“Oh, let me!” said the girl and knelt beside him, 
knotting the improvised bandage into place. “Was 
it burned, Ralph? Fve an ointment — ” 

“No. I twisted it when I fell.” 


EXCURSIONS 


i8i 


She remained looking at him ; slid her arms about 
his neck; laid a smooth, cool cheek against his. 
“Dear Ralph,” she whispered. “Dear lad — come, 
kiss and make friends!” 

He caught at her, kissed her, buried his face 
against her shoulder. “O Doll,^* he said. “Doll, 
can you forgive me?” 

She smiled, touching his cropped hair. “Dear 
heart, how little you know of women ! Come, your 
face is all smeared with — tears — and woodash. Let 
me wipe it. There ! I vow I should have been your 
mother, Ralph — now, let me go — Merodach — ” 

“Damn Merodach!” cried young Carew savagely. 
“Don’t talk to me of him. Doll, come with me — 
come away now, while he’s gone. We’ll go back 
to the inn and hire another chaise and post to Win- 
terbourne. I swear it ! ’Ron honor, I’ll marry you, 
Doll, spite of everything! I’ll — ” 

The chill of her eyes, her lips’ imperious curve 
halted him suddenly. He stammered, floundering. 
“Gad, I — I didn’t mean that! I — I’m half crazed, 
Doll. Think what I’ve suffered in the last few 
hours! I swear I — ” 

“You think too much of your own feelings, and 
too little of mine,” said the girl, drawing away from 
him. “Wait ! I’ve forgiven you once. It remains 
for you to prove my forgiveness merited. We go 
to Winterbourne, but with Merodach. ’Tis all ar- 
ranged — ” 

“O Gad!” sneered young Carew, nettled that he 
had not been consulted. “ ’Tis the first time ever 


i 82 


MY LADY APRIL 


I heard of a girl eloping with two men at once!” 

She stared and turned her back at him, fighting 
down her anger, her indignation, her tears. 

“You are insolent, sir!” said she. “Tend the 
fire while I go wash my hands. I can hear a brook, 
somewhere.” 


CHAPTER XVII 


YOUNG CAREW ACCEPTS A CHALLENGE 

G RAY-GREEN, blue, amethyst, and purple, 
the hills lay half revealed in the dawn; 
ridge after ridge clothed with silent trees 
stretched away to the faint horizon, a land of dream 
melting into eternity. 

Primroses starred the turf ; below the sapling oaks 
wild hyacinths spread their misty veil; and wind- 
flowers, pink and white, hid among their leaves like 
shy children behind spread fingers. 

Dorothy climbed out of the hollow and stood for 
a long moment sticken dumb with the beauty of 
the world. Gorse blazed upon the open hillsides, 
wind-racked blackthorn bushes showered their snow 
upon the brilliant turf. It was a morning of blue 
and gold: of hope, of glad certainty that all was 
well. 

She went downhill to a chalk stream fringed with 
springing rushes, and kneeling, bathed her hands 
and face; her apron did duty as a towel, and re- 
freshed, she went back to the copse to unpack her 
comb and a clean kerchief for her neck. Young 
Carew was not to be seen, and thankful for a mo- 
ment’s privacy she opened her valise and contrived 
to do up her hair and mend a rent in her skirt. 

183 


MY LADY APRIL 


184 

Then, remembering Merodach’s instructions she 
sorted her clothing into three piles : one of dainty 
things that she would not need upon the journey; 
one for present use; one for emergency. Choos- 
ing a stout petticoat and a shawl, she made two 
bundles, pinned and knotted them securely and 
packed the remainder into her bag, singing happily 
to herself, falling silent to listen to the ecstatic 
birds ; wondering where Ralph was gone and plain- 
tively wishing that he were a little more of a man 
and less of a spoilt and rather foolish boy. 

Perhaps when they were wed he would improve. 

Having finished her preparations she sat beside 
the fire, adding a stick here and there, dropping 
dead fir cones into the red heart of the blaze and 
sniffing the sweet-scented smoke, conscious that she 
was hungry. It was an experience; never before 
had she gone without a meal, and last night she had 
eaten nothing but a little bread and wine. 

As Merodach returned whistling through the 
bushes she rose and ran to him, childishly eager 
to see what he had brought. He untied his blue 
kerchief and spread it out, laughing at her curiosity, 
refusing to explain how he came by the batchcake, 
the butter in a cracked cup, six warm eggs, and 
a bottle of milk. 

‘"YouVe forgot the salt,^^ she teased him. 

He grinned and pulled a screw of paper from one 
pocket. “We’ll roast the eggs,” said he, raking at 
the fire. “Later on I’ll get a frying pan. Where’s 
Mr. Carew?” 


CAREW ACCEPTS A CHALLENGE 185 

“I don't know," replied Dolly wistfully. “I went 
down to the brook and when I came back he was 
gone." She wavered for an instant and met his eyes. 
“He asked me to go back with him to the inn and 
hire another chaise and post to Winterbourne. You 
never thought of that, did you 

“And you refused?" The gypsy looked at her 
curiously. 

“Of course! I told him 'twas arranged that we 
went with you, and — he was angry." 

Merodach motioned her to follow him to the 
fringe of the copse. “Look!" said he. “Which 
way did we come last night? Where lies the inn?" 

Lonely, tree-clad country stretched away on all 
sides; in the distance the faint blue of the Wilt- 
shire Downs faded into the sky. 

“I don’t know," confessed the girl. 

“Then, believe me, neither does Mr. Carew. He’ll 
be back again ’fore we’ve done breakfast. I’ll make 
a smoke to guide him, he’s no forester.” 

And sure enough he returned, crestfallen, sulky, 
fearful of being teased. 

But Merodach made no remark upon his absence. 
He cut a thick slice of bread and butter, and passed 
over an egg and the remaining milk. Subdued, 
Ralph ate and drank and was coldly civil ; but when 
Merodach trampled out the fire and buckled 
the half-empty valise upon his shoulders, Carew 
roused. 

“Look ye,’’ he began. “All this folly of walking 
to Winterbourne — ^positively, I forbid it. It’s sui- 


i86 


MY LADY APRIL 


cide! Guide us back to the inn and I’ll pay you 
anything in reason to drive us down to Sussex.” 

‘‘You failed to find the road we took last night?” 
said Merodach. 

Young Carew bitterly acknowledged that he had, 
and anathematized the God-forsaken country. 

Dorothy winced. “O Ralph! It’s beautiful — 
it’s—” 

“Demmed romantic, an’t it?” quoth he, eyeing 
her. “Wait until you’ve walked ten mile, miss! 
You’ll sing another tune!” 

“I’ll sing, anyway!” cried she. 

Merodach laughed, and young Carew turned upon 
him savagely. “You — you damned prize fighter! 
You're a warlock — you’ve bewitched her! What 
woman reared as she has been could walk an hun- 
dred miles?” 

“’Tis not so far,” demurred Merodach, twin- 
kling. “Miss Forrest’s capable of it. I’ll swear. 
I’m not so sure of you, sir.” 

“Rat me!” cried Ralph, piqued. “What she can 
do, I can!” 

“I’ll challenge you!” cried Dolly, afire with sud- 
den exhilaration. “I’ll walk to Winterbourne and 
I’ll not sleep in a house on the way. I dare you, 
Ralph Carew! I dare you!” Bright-eyed, she 
faced him, a-thrill with the knowledge that Mero- 
dach approved her spirit. 

“Gad,” said Ralph, “’tis sheerest lunacy!” 

“What if it is? I’ll dare you to it!” Bubbling 
with laughter and mischief she snatched a hanker 


CAREW ACCEPTS A CHALLENGE 187 

from her bosom and threw it at his feet. ''My 
gage, sir. Dare you take it up?’' 

"Zoons, Doll! You’re maddening!” Young 
Carew stooped for the square of cambric. I’ll wa- 
ger five guineas you repent ’fore nightfall!” 

"Not I !” 

"You’ll not bet?” 

"No. I’ve no money.” 

"Then five to nothing — five to this handkerchief 
— you repent before to-night!” 

"Done!” said she. "Five guineas will be prodi- 
gious acceptable, sir.” 

They picked up the bundles and set out, laugh- 
ing, friendly, following Merodach who strode ahead, 
whistling. 

Half-blown cowslips nodded on the breezy hill- 
top; here and there wild orchis lifted frail, fairy- 
like petals to the sun; larks trilled in the blue, and 
the fickle winds of April drove light clouds over 
the heavens, patching the countryside with gold 
gleams and indigo shadows. 

Merodach paused in a hazel bottom to cut three 
sticks, and trudged on whittling a smooth handle for 
Dorothy, an ear cocked for possible bickerings in 
his rear. But having accepted the challenge young 
Carew braced himself to his trial gallantly. Some- 
thing of Dorothy’s gay assurance infected him : he 
was merry, tender, thoughtful for her comfort. By 
noon he was carrying her bundle as well as his own 
slung from the stick across his shoulders; and he 
made no mention of a blister upon each heel. 


i88 


MY LADY APRIL 


Merodach regarded him with approval as they 
sat down in the shade of gigantic beeches that 
swung their boughs across the chuckling waters of 
a brook. Carew was sweating, was palpably tired, 
yet he made no complaint. He was a little out of 
condition, but a fortnight of hard work and plain 
fare at Mrs. Bradley’s had done Miss Forrest good. 
She stretched herself like a sleepy cat, sighing 
contentedly, prone upon her back with her head in 
her arms. 

You’ve ointment in your bundle?” said Mero- 
dach, rising from the brookside with the milk bottle 
brimming over. Dolly nodded. “Then grease 
your feet, and give some to Mr. Carew. He’s 
galled his heels.” Ralph looked up, surprised.- 
“Your stockings are rubbed though,” added the 
gypsy. 

They ate cold eggs and bread with a relish that 
astonished Carew. Demmit, there was something 
to be said for walking. It gave one an appetite that 
recalled schooldays. He limped off to the brook to 
bathe his feet, and Dorothy looked demurely at 
Merodach, who smiled in answer. 

“Yes, the lad’s gold at bottom,” said he, watching 
Ralph’s departure. “Blood tells.” 

“Then must you be gently born!” flashed Dolly, 
warm-hearted, impulsive by nature, her little affec- 
tations blown away by the clean winds of spring, 
finding herself among the fresh woods and the 
steadfast, comforting hills of this most beautiful 
downland. 


CAREW ACCEPTS A CHALLENGE 189 

Merodach met her eyes and heaved the ghost of a 
sigh. ‘^Oh, Pm a vagrant all through!’' said he, 
rising. “Come, we must on. I’ll wait yonder with 
Carew until you’re ready.” 

Rubbing salve into her feet, Dorothy pondered. 

If Ralph had been Merodach, and Merodach 
Ralph? What then? Would she have hesitated, 
as secretly she did now? Would she have won- 
dered a little tremulously if her marriage with 
young Carew would be the dream of bliss she had 
imagined? She shook herself free of the thought. 
She was plighted — but no, Ralph had never for- 
mally asked her to wed him. He had this morning 
announced his intention of doing so, but had not 
waited for her consent, had appeared to take it for 
granted. 

Merodach was right. Things never turned out 
as one supposed they would. Life was an unre- 
hearsed play; it was better not to arrange details, 
but to trust to chance, to fate, to — Providence. 

For an instant she relaxed, lying back to stare 
upward at the towering silver-gray trunks above 
her, conscious for the first time in her life that a 
greater power, a vaster knowledge than her own 
ruled events. No service in Bath Abbey had stirred 
her as did those moments in which she lay gazing 
into the depths of opening leaves that spread in 
a green canopy between earth and sky. 

A squirrel ran down a branch, leaped — a miracle 
of a leap — to another : raced along to the swinging 
tip and launched itself into space with the ease and 


190 


MY LADY APRIL 


certainty of a bird alighting. A second followed 
hot-foot, busy tail trailing, and the love-chase contin- 
ued until she lost sight of flying lady and pursuing 
lord. 

Flushing, she sat upright and pulled on her shoes. 
It would be well to fly love, to hold him at a dis- 
tance until she knew her mind. She had been too 
ready to trust young Carew. At the end of their 
journey they would be more familiar with each oth- 
er’s thoughts, likes, dislikes. It was monstrous ven- 
turesome in her to have eloped with him on so 
slight an acquaintance, and yet — what else could 
she have done? 

Sobered, a little forlorn, she rejoined the two men 
and they set forth again, keeping to grass tracks 
and by-lanes, avoiding scattered farms and isolated 
villages tucked away among the folds of the Downs, 
until with the early twilight they came to a highroad, 
dipping and climbing to drop at last into the green 
vale of the Test ; and here in a bay of sheep-cropped 
turf wailed with flaming gorse, Merodach slipped 
the pack from his shoulders and stretched, easing 
weary muscles. Dorothy plumped down upon the 
bag, tired, but laughing. Young Carew spread the 
rug upon the grass and himself upon the rug. 

^‘Come now,” he wheedled. ‘‘Confess, Doll ! 
You do repent !” 

“No!” she cried. “A thousand times no! But 
I’m hungry.” 

Ralph pulled out a silk purse and tossed five 


CAREW ACCEPTS A CHALLENGE 19 1 

guineas into her lap, a little astonished that she in- 
stantly handed them to the gypsy. 

“What now?” said he. “ ’Tis yours.’’ 

“O tally!” returned Dorothy. “We’re two meals 
in Merodach’s debt already. How d’ye suppose he 
got breakfast and dinner ? He must have paid some 
farmer’s wife. And now we need a saucepan and a 
kettle and three mugs and a basket to carry ’em in 
— besides food and drink. Take the money, Mero- 
dach, and go buy. We’ll wait here for you.” 

They spent that night in a tiled barn standing 
in the corner of a wheat-field. A loft at one end 
was Dorothy’s chamber, and snuggling down in her 
sweet-scented bed, she slept dreamlessly until the 
twitter of swallows in the high-pitched roof awoke 
her. 

She knelt upright to peer into the barn, half -filled 
with last year’s straw, wrapped in a brown twi- 
light shot with floating golden motes where the 
sun struck redly through a square window. Mero- 
dach and Ralph lay below : the newly acquired cook- 
ing-pots were spread upon the threshing-floor, be- 
side two oddly shaped bundles which she had been 
too tired to examine overnight. 

She crept down the ladder and stole across to 
open them. A red-brown shawl ; strong, low-heeled 
shoes of thick leather; a couple of colored kerchiefs, 
and a man’s felt hat and gray worsted stockings 
were in one: the other held a medley of ribbons, 
and laces, buttons, tape; ballads printed on long 


192 


MY LADY APRIL 


strips of yellowish paper, and a dozen other odds 
and ends to be found in every peddler's pack. 

Wondering, she turned them over, and looked up 
to find the gypsy's black eyes upon her. 

“Gad!" said he, stifling a yawn. “How Tve 
slept I" 

'‘Your fingers are all inkstained," said she, staring. 

“I had occasion to write a letter last night, and 
'twas a vile quill," he returned coolly. 

She held up a string of red beads. “Buy a neck- 
lace for your sweetheart, sir ? Any tape, mistress ? 
Needles — pins ?" 

Merodach laughed. “That's the game, child. 
You're to the manner born." 

“And are these for me?" said she, weighing the 
shoes in her hand. “They're monstrous thick." 

“They'll be more comfortable than your own." 

“But how did you know my size?" 

To her amazement the man blushed furiously, but 
he would not look away. “Faith, haven't I held 
your foot in my hand?" said he. “They’ll fit. 
Try 'em!" He went out and she could hear him 
savagely breaking sticks for the fire. 

The shoes fitted, the shawl went well with her 
work-worn peacock blue gown. She tied a kerchief 
over her hair and examined the effect in the little 
mirror she carried in her bundle. A glowing face 
laughed back at her: she could hardly believe she 
was the same girl who had been taken to the Rooms 
in a sedan that night less than a month ago. 

“Zoons !" said young Carew, propping himself on 


CAREW ACCEPTS A CHALLENGE 193 

his hands and staring. 'What under the sun have 
you done to yourself?” 

She held up a ballad. "Buy a song, sir ? Only a 
penny. Listen, ’tis a sweet air, and passing sad — 

^ The water is wide, I can not get o'er 
And neither have I wings to dy. 

Give me a boat that will carry two, 

And both shall row, my love and 1/ " 

"Demmit,” growled Ralph. "There’s no need to 
make a fool of yourself. You might be a tinker’s 
wife !” 

"Better that than a gentleman’s mistress !” 

He winced, but Dorothy was laughing. "I’m 
dressing to the part,” said she, arranging her wares 
in the big basket. "Merodach, Mr. Carew dis- 
approves my costume.” 

The gypsy leaned against the open door and looked 
from one to the other. "Faith, ’tis safer, sir. To- 
morrow’s May Day and the villages’ll be full of riff- 
raff. Miss Forrest would excite remark, tramping 
the roads in her own person. But as my — sister — ” 

"But what of me?” cried Ralph. "I’ll not dress 
as a vagrant to pleasure you !” 

Merodach twinkled at Dorothy, who threw back 
her head and laughed whole-heartedly. 

"O lud !” sobbed she, wiping her eyes and rocking 
to and fro. "O Ralph ! If you could but see your- 
self — here!” She caught up the little mirror and 
tossed it toward him, shrieking with delight at his 
fallen face. 


194 


MY LADY APRIL 


‘^Gad !” He caressed a chin on which the downy 
growth showed black. “I’d forgot I’d not shaved.” 

“Shaved!” gurgled Dolly. ‘‘O me! Your hair’s 
full of dust, your cravat’s torn, your coat — O 
Ralph! your coat!” 

He took it off, shook it out and regarded it with 
a wry smile. “Sure, Merodach, you’d no need to go 
buy me a disguise,” he admitted. “I must appear a 
very scarecrow !” 

“I got a neckerchief for you,” returned Merodach, 
smothering a desire to smite the lad jovially upon the 
back. “And some stockings and a hat. You miss 
your wig, sir, I imagine.” 

“Yes. I lost it somewhere on the road. I’ve the 
deuce of a cold.” 

Ralph stepped free of the straw and followed them 
out into the barnyard where a fire glowed and the 
sound and smell of frying bacon suggested breakfast. 
And when the meal was over they went soberly 
through the glowing red and brown houses of Stock- 
bridge, still half awake and peopled solely by yawn- 
ing apprentices staggering beneath shutters, and be- 
capped maidservants twirling dripping mops between 
their arms. 

One or two gave them good morning as they 
trudged by, but Merodach merely nodded and 
pushed on; unwilling to anger young Carew by 
needlessly subjecting Dorothy to the indignity of 
chaffering. 

So, down the wide, irregular street that spans the 
valley; across the blue, “green-haired” waters of the 


CAREW ACCEPTS A CHALLENGE 195 

Test, they came by downland and common, by lane 
and by-road to the lush water-meadows and the 
flower-strewn marshlands of the Itchen. 

Snipe drummed in the swamps; sedge warblers 
chattered briskly over their nest building; and moor 
hens, convoying fleets of fluffy black chicks, swam 
with their quaint bobbing motion in and out the 
clumps of reeds and springing flags. 

A farmer’s wife, pausing at her garden gate, 
hailed Dorothy as she passed ; and the girl turned and 
swung her basket forward to show her wares, shy 
now that the time had come to play her part. 

Ralph humped his shoulders and went on out of 
sight: Merodach lingered, watching solicitously: 
and the farmer’s wife, choosing needles and thread, 
looked up in surprise at the girl’s faltering answers. 

*'Ye’re new to this game, my dear,” said she, 
shaking her head. 'Tape be worth more’n that. 
Ye’ll never grow rich at this rate.” 

Dorothy smiled a little wistfully. 'T’ve a lot to 
learn,” she admitted. 

"Bad luck, havin’ to take to the road,” suggested 
Mrs. Butterwick. "Troubles come to all on us, but 
I thank the dear Lord I’ve a roof over my head.” 
She looked from Merodach, hung about with the pots 
and pans, to the tired figure of the girl. "Coin’ 
far?” 

"To my cousin’s at Winterbourne,” said Dolly. 

"To Winterbourne in Sussex? Well now, that’s 
my native! Mebbe ye know Mistus Coulter that 
kep’ the Magpie? She were an aunt o’ mine.” 


196 MY LADY APRIL 

knew her well,” said Dolly. “She died a year 

ago.” 

“Well, think o’ that, now, you cornin’ from 
Winterbourne ! My master han’t no gurt likin’ for 
pikers, but if ye’re Sussex borned he’ll say naun. I 
rackon ye’d like to come in an’ set a bit. There’s 
brencheese an’ a bit o’ cold pie. Come yer ways.” 
She held the gate open invitingly. “Yer brother 
went on? Go pick him up, lad. I’ll mother her.” 

Merodach nodded, dropped his pack over the 
fence and hurried after Ralph; while Dorothy fol- 
lowed her hostess up the gray flower-garden to a 
timbered, red brick house, built in intricate herring- 
bone patterns as though the workman had loved his 
trade. 

Chatting amiably, Mrs. Butterwick laid supper at 
one end of a long table ; showed Dorothy where the 
pump stood, and was making up the fire when 
Merodach returned with the reluctant Ralph. The 
gypsy was at ease, merry, grateful; but the unprec- 
edented experience of receiving charity jarred 
young Carew. He ate and drank with his eyes upon 
his plate, and made no attempt at conversation ; sit- 
ting aloof, intensely uncomfortable and out of his 
element, while Merodach and Dolly helped their 
hostess to clear away the dishes. 

Presently in came the farmer, red-faced, jovial, 
clad in earth-stained coat and breeches round which 
clung the reek of wood smoke and the pungent 
odor of horses. 

“Hey, mistus!” he called, holding up a handful 


CAREW ACCEPTS A CHALLENGE 197 

of white wool and dangling legs. ^‘Warm some 
milk, will’ee? Here’s a hob-lamb to be fed.” 
And broke off, with a shrewd glance at the stran- 
gers. ‘^Company?” said he, catching his wife’s eye. 

“Coin’ home to Winterbourne,” she told him. 

‘‘Well, ye’re kindly welcome, whoever ye be! 
Larmentable purty weather we do be having’, 
though the roads be middlin’ slubby.” 

Dorothy reached for the lamb, her eyes wet. 

“Give him to me, she murmured, and sat fond- 
ling the little creature until its meal was ready. 
Then, kneeling on the hearth, she fed it, uncon- 
scious of the picture she made against the black cav- 
ern of the great chimney; her shawl tucked about 
the lamb, her hair tumbling in shining masses to 
her neck, her hands busy with the bowl of milk 
and a sopped rag. 

Merodach, answering Farmer Butterwick’s ques- 
tions, became aware that the man was watching, 
puzzled, curious, 

“Well,” said he, stretching wearily. “We must 
on and find shelter. Up wi’ ye, Dolly.” 

“Nay now, said the farmer, there’s maun to 
hurry ye. Leave the maid be, she be nigh flogged. 
Ye can sleep in my barn as well as other where. 
’Tis May Day to-morrow, an’ ye’d do a fine trade 
on the green at merrymaking — by gum! I’d near 
disremembered. What d’ye think, old ’ooman? 
Old Sam Isted were naun the better for what he’d 
took, an’ he were drivin’ that there camsteery horse 
Nightowl, an’ canted out o’ the wagon up along the 


198 


MY LADY APRIL 


hill an’ broke his arm, an’ let-be-how-’twill, he can’t 
fiddle for us. I promised Squire I’d rout round for 
another fiddler, an’ now what wi^ the old ewe so 
mortacious bad, ’tis too late to go into Stockbridge 
for Dick Lee. Dang me for a fool! There’ll be 
a hem set-out-to-morrow.” 

'T’ll play for you,” said Merodach. “What’ll 
they want? Country dances?” 

“You?” 

“Yes. So be as ye can borrow a fiddle.” 

“Oh ay, ye can have the loanst of old Sam’s 
music, an’ welcome! Pegs, an’t this a bit o’ luck? 
D’ye know any Morris toons ? Squire’s fair set on 
the Morris. He had a man down from Oxford- 
shire to learn some o’ the village chaps. My wag- 
oner’s Captain this year. He’ll run over the toons 
wi’ ye in the mornin’. Pegs, an’t this a bit o’ luck ! 
Squire’d never forgive me if Fd failed him. He 
do think a heap o’ May Day, bless his heart! Ye’ll 
stop, then? What a bit o’ luck! Old ’ooman, can 
ye find a blanket for the lass, an’ she can sleep in 
the hay-mow as snug as snug. Pegs, an’t this a 
bit o’ luck!” 


CHAPTER XVIII 


NEWS 

K icking his heels in Bath, Larry Cava- 
nagh waited impatiently for word from 
Merodach. None came. The Irishman 
told himself that it was hopeless to expect a letter 
so soon, and looked about for something of interest 
that would keep him occupied until he could hear. 

Bath danced and gambled; flirted, drank the 
waters; attended service in the Abbey, and paced 
delicately in Spring Gardens or King’s Mead 
Fields. Nothing remarkable occurred to break the 
monotonous circle of daily existence. 

The excitement arising from Lady Forrest’s 
elopement with Mr. Cassillis soon subsided; none 
was seriously affected; here and there one would 
wonder where the daughter had hid herself, and 
gaining no reply, would wonder at something else. 

Sir Julian might have been in his grave for ten 
years, for all the rumor of foul play. He was 
gone. All would go, soon or late. As gnats danc- 
ing in the sunlight continue their crazy whirl 
though half their number be of a sudden swept 
into eternity by the swish of a cow’s tail, so Bath 
danced on, heedless. 

Cavanagh grew bored, became petulant, sulked, 
199 


200 


MY LADY APRIL 


loathed Bath and yet could not leave it: determined 
to ride out each day in search of distraction and 
return only at nightfall in the hope of finding a 
letter. And it was during one of these aimless 
wanderings that he came upon Mrs. Janet, late tire- 
woman to my lady Lavinia. 

Cavanagh drew rein at a wayside tavern and 
called for a stirrup-cup. Janet carried it out and 
waited, tray in hand, gossiping while he sipped. It 
was monstrous dull in the country, she averred, 
tossing cherry ribbons on a spotless cap. Give her 
town for seeing life. Bath for choice. 

'' ’Tis monstrous dull in Bath just now, child,’^ 
said Larry, and looked down at her with something 
of recollection puckering his brow. ‘^Ged, han^t 
I seen ye in Bath, my dear 

'Lud, yes!” cried Janet. ‘‘An’t ye Mr. Cava- 
nagh? I was maid to Lady Forrest. What's new, 
sir, if I an’t making too bold?” 

"‘New, child? Nothing’s new. There’s been 
no excitement since Sir Julian Carew was mur- 
dered.” 

‘Tawks, sir! Murdered? I han’t heard of 
that.” Janet looked up, eager for detail. ‘‘Last 
time I saw the old gentleman he seemed hale 
enough. A chin cough, but ’tis nothing. He was 
spry enough the night of his eightieth birthday, en- 
tertaining his two newies and laying down the law 
that strampageous ! Ho, I couldn’t hear what was 
said, but I saw everything after the major-domo 
drew the curtains back.” 


NEWS 


201 


^‘The night of his eightieth birthday?” shouted 
Cavanagh staring at her. *‘Is it sure ye are, 
Jenny?” 

‘‘Sure? Why shouldn’t I be" sure? Faith, I’ve 
enough to remember it by. ’Twas the night my 
lady left Bath, and I left her service and went to 
Laverton’s to my aunt’s. A widow woman, sir. I 
found her ill a-bed, and looked after her till she got 
about again. And then she wanted me to live with 
her and help with the market-garden, but the stoop- 
ing do try my back, sir, something cruel. So when 
my savings were spent” — Janet’s euphuism for the 
money raised on the clothing she had appropri- 
ated — “I came here as barmaid. But ’tis mon- 
strous dull, sir, serving country clodhoppers, and 
never a gentleman among ’em to give me a tip.” 

“But Sir Julian?” cried Cavanagh. “Tell me of 
Sir Julian. ’Tis a matter of life or death!” 

“Lud, sir, there’s little to tell. Mr. Ralph Carew 
dined with him that night. They had out the gilt 
plate, and covers was laid for three, but Mr. Vale- 
rius didn’t come till they’d done dinner.” She medi- 
tated, plaiting her apron. “Mr. Harris pulled the 
curtains over the windows directly they sat down, 
so I couldn’t see what they ate.” 

“See ? Where the deuce were ye, child ?” 

“Me, sir ? Oh, I was in our gaming rooms, pre- 
paring for the night’s play. You can see every- 
thing that goes on in Sir Julian’s dining-room, but 
the old gentleman caught me peeping once, and ever 
since then he’s had candles lit and the curtains 


202 


MY LADY APRIL 


drawn while he dines, no matter how light it is. 
Selfish, I call it!” 

‘I’ll give you a guinea if ye’ll tell me a straight- 
forward tale of all you saw that night,” said Cava- 
nagh, chafing at her circumlocution. He dis- 
mounted, and tying Colleen to the ring, sat down 
upon a bench against the sun- warmed wall of the 
tavern. “Come, take your time.” 

“They must ha’ dined about four,” mused Janet, 
frowning thoughtfully. “We don’t — didn’t open 
our doors till eight and I’d nothing to do. I sat be- 
side the window and watched the passers-by, for 
company. At five or thereabout, Mr. Valerius 
comes up in a chair and crawls out and pays the 
men and goes into the house. Nothing happened 
after that for half an hour or so. Then out comes 
Mr. Ralph very red in the face, and hurried down 
to town, bound for the Rooms, belike. In fact, I 
remember hearing Mrs. Darbey say he was to be 
there. After a bit I see Mr. Harris tear the cur- 
tains back. He flung up the sash, too, which I won- 
dered at, seeing Sir Julian was troubled with the chin 
cough. He were took in a kind of fit, sir, gasping 
and clawing at his cravat. I could see Mr. Vale- 
rius held him round the shoulders while the butler 
give him a drink. Then Mr. Harris hurried out o’ 
the room, and Sir Julian come to and seemed quite 
hisself. He were monstrous angered over some- 
thing, thumped the arms of his chair and pointed to 
the door. Mr. Valerius, being a tired kind o’ party, 
spoke soothing and patted him on the shoulder. 


NEWS 


203 


That made Sir Julian mad. He got up and threw 
an orange at Mr. Valerius, and Mr. Valerius draws 
hisself up very haughty and bows and leaps out o’ 
window and stalks off down the street without his 
hat. Monstrous hurt, sir, as any one could see 
with half an eye.’^ 

“But Sir Julian?” insisted Larry excitedly. 
“What of him?” 

“Oh, nothing, sir. He went over to his desk, 
walking slow but quite able, and took a key off of 
his fob, and unlocked it and began to hunt for some- 
thing. I was waiting for him to pull out a secret 
drawer, but as ill luck would have it my lady called 
me just then, so I went above-stairs to dress her 
head, and she kept me running up and down nigh 
two hours so that — ” 

“Then you didn’t know that Mr. Valerius was 
thought to have murdered Sir Julian?” 

“Lud, no, sir! Murdered? What nonsense! I 
can prove he didn’t, anyway, seeing the old gentle- 
man alive at his desk after his nevvy left.” 

“Valerius jumped though the window, ye said?” 

“Yes, sir. One hand on the sill, as easy as a cat. 
It did seem a bit odd, and him being such a tired 
kind o’ party, but I could see he were terribly put 
about. He went off that rapid.” 

“Ye’d swear to all this before a magistrate, 
wouldn’t ye now, Janet?” 

“Lud sir, yes ! Before any one,” said she stoutly. 
“Write it all out fair, sir, and I’ll put my mark to 
it. I’m not much of a dab with a pen.” 


204 


MY LADY APRIL 


Cavanagh threw her a guinea and spurred home 
to draw up the document that was to prove Valerius 
Carew innocent. 

A letter awaited him. 

‘It come by the coach from Stockbridge, sir,” 
said his landlady, thrusting her mutch round the 
crack of his door. “A shilling to pay, Mr. Cava- 
nagh.” 

He nodded, tearing open the folded paper. 
“Faith, ye can put it on next week’s bill in place o’ 
them immortal candles which I never burn,” said 
he, and read : 

“Honrd. Sir, — All safe. We walk to W — n as 
quick as may be, ten miles or so a day.” (A rough 
sketch map outlined the route.) “If necessary, ad- 
dress me care of Joseph Marsh, butler. Ash Holt 
Grange, near Hazelhurst. We should be there by 
Wednesday. 

“Yr. obdt. hmble. servant to comd. 

“Merodach.” 

Mr. Cavanagh read this missive through several 
times; staring thoughtfully out of the dusty win- 
dow, and suddenly casting his hat upon the floor, 
danced round it, whistling. 


CHAPTER XIX 


MAY DAY AT HAZELHURST 

M ERODACH was shaving at the stable 
door, having borrowed a razor, soap 
and mirror from Farmer Butterwick. 
Young Carew came out and regarded him with 
some envy. 

"‘After you said he. 

Merodach grinned through the lather. “Pm 
afeared ye’ll look too much the gentleman, shaved.” 

“Then demmit. I’ll not stop!” declared Ralph. 
“Come now, Merodach, don’t be jealous!” 

“Deuced subtle!” murmured Merodach, scraping 
away. “O lud, I take you. You infer, sir, that 
even shaven I could not look a gentleman.” He 
made a leg, flourishing his razor. “Sounds devil- 
ish crude, but ’tis true, I suppose.” 

“You’re a strange creature,” quoth young Carew, 
swinging his feet as he perched upon the horse- 
trough. “Rat me if I know what to make of you ! 
For a tramp you’re — ” 

“Lord, Lord, we’re all tramps!” said the gypsy, 
and plunged his face into the bucket of water. 

From the road beyond the farmhouse came the 
laughter and song of children bearing garlands of 
flowers and green branches. The dairymaids, rus- 
205 


206 


MY LADY APRIL 


tling in clean dresses, each had a posy tucked into 
her bosom: new straw hats hung ready behind the 
kitchen door. A wagoner, seated upon the bench 
where shining milk pails were set to dry, was plait- 
ing fresh ribbons to tie around his elbows for the 
Morris : and three lanky youths hung about the yard 
waiting a chance to present tight round nosegays of 
garden flowers, which they endeavored to conceal 
behind them; jealously scowling at one another; 
tongue-tied and shy whenever one of the maids 
tripped, smiling consciously, past the open door. 

Before noon the village green was thronged with 
country-folk clad in their best for the most joyous 
holiday of all the year. On a seat that circled one 
of the giant oaks the Parson gossiped with half a 
dozen aged worthies, who, hand behind ear and stick 
between knees, were prepared to sit day-long and 
criticise their more agile neighbors. 

Grandmothers ambled sedately between couples 
of toddling youngsters, followed by proud mothers 
carrying the very youngest. Children of all ages 
romped and shrieked, or crowded round a green 
booth to gaze in awe at Robin Hood and Maid Mar- 
ian, and a fat jester struggling into his hobby-horse. 

The Squire had had bowers of wattle hurdles and 
leafy branches erected on one side of the green, 
where the gray wall of the Manor grounds bounded 
the expanse of turf and here cakes and ale, cold 
meat and pastry were to be had for the asking. 

A Maypole, gay with hoops and garlands of flow- 
ers, towered above everything, and at its foot an 


MAY DAY AT HAZELHURST 207 

upturned hogshead, covered with a scarlet cloth, 
was ready for the fiddler. 

Farmer Butterwick, in green bfoadcloth and brass 
buttons that winked in the sun, shepherded his party 
from the farm : Mrs. Butterwick, a son and his 
wife, a daughter and her husband and four scamper- 
ing children; the wagoners, the dairymaids, a herd 
boy, and the still dangling, nosegay-carrying beaux, 
who had not yet plucked up sufficient courage to ad- 
vance with their offerings. Merodach and his bor- 
rowed fiddle, and Dolly with her basket, brought up 
the rear. 

Young Carew, shaven but still shamefaced, re- 
fused to join them, saying he would follow later, 
when he could slip in among the crowd unobserved. 

‘Toor lad !’' said Merodach as they set out. “He 
labors under the delusion that the whole of crea- 
tion can look at nothing else. ’Tis but a malady 
of youth. 'Twill pass." 

Dorothy laughed. “I suffered the complaint my- 
self, years ago, at my first ball." 

“Ah," returned Merodach with something 
vaguely resembling a bow. “But in your case ’twas 
true." He flung out his hand toward a mag- 
nificent bird that spread his tail from the wall of the 
Manor. “Look ! Even the peacock is all eyes for 
you !" 

“Merodach,'’ said the girl gently, “don't spoil 
our friendship with empty compliments." She slid 
her hand into his. “I — I'm prodigious lonely, 
Merodach. I need a friend more than you can 


208 


MY LADY APRIL 


know.” Her voice died in her throat, she turned 
wet eyes away. 

The gypsy said nothing but gripped her fingers, 
and hand in hand they followed the farmer to the 
foot of the Maypole where Squire Hazelhurst and 
his lady and a dozen guests awaited them. 

“Morning, Squire,” called Butterwick, touching 
his hat. “A merry May to ’ee, sir, an’ many of 
’em! I’ve brought ’ee a fiddler. Squire.” He 
jerked a thumb in the direction of Merodach, who 
smiled and nodded a bare head. 

“O la!” whispered one of the girls from the 
Manor. “Look, Lucy! An’t he a handsome fel- 
low!” Fans fluttered, dainty hats bobbed together 
as their wearers stood a-tiptoe to catch a glimpse 
of the gypsy; but the men of the party had eyes 
only for Dorothy. 

“Sink me!” said Colin Carmichael, poising a 
quizzing glass. “A country beauty ! A hedge- 
rose! Burn my soul!” And pressed nearer, star- 
ing. 

Dorothy found herself the center of a laughing, 
ogling crowd of men, but this was nothing new. 
She backed against the wall of a booth, and 
ensconced behind her basket, held them off and 
had a retort for every sally. 

Quick to take her measure, the gentlemen con- 
tented themselves with choosing ribbons to offer 
as fairings to the ladies. One or two farm lads 
bought up the rest, and Dorothy was soon left 
swinging an empty basket and watching rather 


MAY DAY AT HAZELHURST 209 

wistfully the impressive ceremony of crowning the 
Queen of May. A pretty, red-haired lass was en- 
circled with a green garland; crowned with a 
wreath of primroses, solemnly embraced by the 
Squire and amid cheers and the waving of berib- 
boned hats, escorted to her throne beneath the oak. 
Then lines formed for the first dance, in which, 
following the time-honored custom of the village, 
the Squire and his lady took part. 

''My Lady Cullen T shouted the Squire, bus- 
tling from group to group. ‘"Longways for as 
many as will, but make it twelve couple or we’ll be 
at it till dinner-time. A dozen couple. Butter- 
wick, line ’em up! Come, Parson, you’re dancing, 
Mrs. Butterwick lacks a partner. Hi, Doctor ! 
No sneaking off to smoke, now. Find a maid, sir, 
find a maid! Now, Carmichael — Wallace — a dozen 
couple. This set full? No, ye want two. Lucy, 
my dear, bring your Philip. Are we ready? 
Strike up, fiddler! My Lady Cullen!’^ 

Seizing his wife’s hand the worthy Squire led his 
set, a double cmd hack, all that again, set and 
turn single — ” his face radiating smiles, his wig 
askew, his lace ruffles fluttering: the surliest cur- 
mudgeon could not have resisted his overflowing 
good-nature. 

My Lady Cidlen ending in bobs and bows, the 
Squire’s party retired to the booth set apart for 
their use, and sat waving fans and kerchiefs, and 
declaring that it was prodigious hot for the time of 
year : watching with varying degrees of interest the 


210 


MY LADY APRIL 


Morris men processing across the green, led by the 
prancing hobby-horse, Robin Hood winding his 
horn, and a lanky Maid Marian, a little sheepish 
in his girl’s attire. 

With a rhythmical sweep of white handkerchiefs 
and flutter of ribbons at waist and knee, the Morris 
men, solemn, yet expressing a restrained exhilara- 
tion, went through the figures of Step Back, the 
bells upon their legs ringing lustily in time to the 
stamp of feet and the swinging, inspiriting music of 
the fiddle. The Squire sat intent, critical as only 
one can be who has had practical experience of this 
ancient form of art. The Rose followed: Farmer 
Butterwick’s wagoner danced the Princess Royal 
jig; and then the Squire called them all into his 
booth to drink the inevitable healths. The King, 
God bless him ! The Queen of May. The Squire, 
deafening cheers. Mrs. Hazelhurst and family, 
more cheers. The gentry from the Manor, and so 
on ad infinitum. 

Merodach, sitting on his hogshead, mopped his 
face and smiled across at Dorothy, who presently 
made her way through the moving crowd and leaned 
against the Maypole, absently plucking at the 
strings of the violin. 

“I didn’t know you played, Merodach,” said she. 

For an instant he was off his guard. “Faith, I 
keep it dark. ’Tis considered monstrous vulgar. 
The flute’s your only genteel instrument.” 

She looked up, recognizing that here spoke an 
equal. “Who are you, Merodach?” 


MAY DAY AT HAZELHURST 21 1 


He shrugged. ^'What’s in a name? My soul’s 
my own, were my father lord or lackey. Give me 
the fiddle, child, and get ye a partner. Here comes 
the Squire.” 

He came, nodding cheerily at Merodach, beckon- 
ing to Dorothy. ‘‘D’ye know Gathering Peascods, 
fiddler? Just for the youngers. Come, child, you 
must dance. My son’ll jump at the chance. Robin 
— Robin, here’s a partner for ye!” 

A rosy-cheeked lad of eighteen ran up, offered 
Dorothy his wrist and led her off. 

“Now then!” cried the Squire, waving his hat. 

Gathering Peascods!” 

A great circle of children ringed the Maypole, 
hand in hand, jumping with excitement. Here and 
there a stripling shot up above the smaller fry, or 
a long-legged girl stooped for the hands of two 
seven-year-olds. As the fiddle shrilled out the 
Squire retired, dreaming, and sat himself down to 
watch; and at this moment young Carew lounged 
along the sun-flecked road in search of Dorothy. 

Up bounced the Squire to accost him. “Hi 
there, my maji !” 

Startled, Ralph stopped and stared, neglecting to 
touch his hat. A farm hand knocked it off for him. 

“Dang’ee, cap Squire!” he bawled truculently. 

“You’re a stranger?” said the Squire, advancing. 
“You’re welcome. We’re merrymaking to-day. 
First of May, ye know. Must keep up old 
customs. Sit down, man, and — why — what’s this? 
What’s this?” 


212 


MY LADY APRIL 


A girl left the Manor party and came toward 
them smiling, flushing, a dainty hand outstretched. 

‘‘O me!” cried she gayly. ‘‘ ’Tis Ralph Carew! 
Lud, how strange! We part in Paris to meet 
again in Hazelhurst. Sure, you’ve not been so un- 
gallant as to forget me? 

Thunderstruck, poor Ralph stood staring, scarlet 
to the ears, fingering that absurd felt hat. ‘‘Miss 
Carmichael?” he stammered. 

“Who else? But in Paris it was Julie, wasn’t it? 
Fickle creature, you vowed you’d write, but no — 
never a line. Uncle, you must know Ralph Carew. 
You remember his uncle. Sir Julian. Dear old 
man! How does he, Ralph? I seem to know him 
so well, from all your talk of him.” 

Suppressing his astonishment with an effort, the 
Squire shook hands with this tatterdemalion and 
patted his niece upon the arm. 

“Lud, Julie,” said he. “Your friends crop up 
in unexpected quarters, on my soul ! Carew, you’re 
very welcome, if only for your uncle’s sake. We 
were at school together, though he must ha’ been 
years older than I. I owe him thanks for many a 
kindness to a homesick youngster, bullied out of his 
five wits. Hallo, the dance is over. Carew, I’ll 
leave you to Julie’s tender mercies! Excuse me.” 
He bustled away and young Carew remained miser- 
ably gazing at the turf. 

“What ails the man?” said Miss Carmichael, 
glancing demurely from beneath long lashes. 

“Why — why, ’tis devilish distressing, meeting 


MAY DAY AT HAZELHURST 213 

you like this/^ floundered Ralph, conscious of her 
amusement. 

‘‘You’re not glad to see me. Helas, these 
ephemeral vows!” 

“Gad, I don’t mean that, Julie!” he cried. “But 
I — this dress — I’m not fit company — I — ” 

She screwed her hand into an imaginary spyglass 
and regarded him quizzically, to his intense dis- 
comfort. 

“Lud, I find you improved, Ralph. You’ve 
grown. I protest you’ve quite a color. Dear 
heart, how the child blushes! La, what’s a shabby 
coat? I dare swear you’re doing this for a wager.” 

“I — I am,” faltered Ralph. “ ’Tis secret. I’m 
— I’m vowed not to disclose — ” 

“How intriguing! Come, sit with me and re- 
count all your desperate adventures. How long is’t 
since we parted and you rushed off to pay your 
devoirs to Sir Julian? A month! And you’ve 
not writ to me. ’Twas monstrous cruel in you, 
sir, and I at the window each morn, languishing 
for a letter. Come, you may bring me a glass of 
cider and a cake — a large one, Ralph, with candied 
peel atop. And we’ll sit here and I’ll listen 
leniently to your apologies.” 

“O lud!” thought young Carew. “Here’s 
another woman demanding apologies!” He 
pulled his hat over his eyes and brought refresh- 
ment, dropping beside Miss Carmichael’s chair, 
his face afire, his ears tingling; unable to reply to 
her rallying; conscious that from a distance Mero- 


214 


MY LADY APRIL 


dach was regarding him with amusement and 
Dorothy with surprise ;i hot with shame at the 
smothered titters from the ladies of the Manor, w^ho 
behind painted fans whispered together and laughed 
maliciously. 

Devoutly hoping that Dorothy would have the 
good sense to keep away, he turned his back upon 
the green and endeavored to answer Miss Car- 
michael’s questions without implicating himself 
with Miss Forrest. The girl beside him was piqued 
but ready to listen to explanations, and he was tell- 
ing her of his uncle’s sudden death when the fiddle 
began again and squares formed for Saint Martins. 

Miss Carmichael sprang to her feet. “Dance 
with me, Ralph. I adore country dances, and on 
such turf! Uncle, Uncle! Have you a partner? 
Come face us.” She caught Carew by the cuff and 
pulled him forward, and the wretched fellow found 
himself opposite Dorothy; Dorothy with set lips 
and dangerously cool eyes. He got through the 
dance somehow, tingling as she turned her shoulder 
to him in the honor; and led Miss Carmichael back 
to her seat. 

“An’t my uncle deliciously sans fagon, dancing 
with that peddler girl ?” said she, snapping open her 
fan and handing it to him to wield. “A pretty 
wench. The tenants adore him, and can you won- 
der ? Shall you make such a squire when you come 
into your own, Ralph?” 

He shrugged. “There’s my cousin Valerius to 


MAY DAY AT HAZELHURST 215 

be reckoned with. He’s heir. We’ve to prove his 
death ’fore I can inherit.” 

‘‘His death?” shrieked Julie, horror-struck. 

“Lud, yes. He’s disappeared. Everything goes 
to him if he’s alive. Ash Holt, the London house, 
everything!” 

“Ash Holt is somewhere hereabout, is’t not?” 

“Five miles or so from here, I suppose. ’Tis 
years since I was there.” 

“La, how I would love to see it !” exclaimed Miss 
Carmichael, clasping her hands. “We could ride 
over and picnic. Delicious! Uncle — Uncle! Mr. 
Carew has a house near. Elizabethan, you said, 
Ralph ? I dote upon old houses. Can we ride over 
to-morrow and send a groom with dinner ? It’s oc- 
cupied, Ralph?” 

“There’s a housekeeper, I believe,” returned poor 
Carew*, dazed with the young lady’s impetuosity, 
sublimely blind to the fact that Julie was perfectly 
aware of his unhappiness and was endeavoring to 
punish him for his neglect of her. “But I tell you, 
Julie — ’tis my cousin’s place. I’ve no — ” 

“Oh, Sir Valerius won’t know, and if he did he’d 
never be so churlish as to object. Uncle, you’ll 
mount Ralph ? Ladybird would be up to his 
weight.” 

“Just as you please, my dear,” said the Squire 
absently, watching The Phoenix with the nearest 
approach to a frown that ever ruffled his benign 
forehead. “Gad, ’tis degenerating to a romp 1 


2i6 


MY LADY APRIL 


Too bad — ^too bad! Shocking, Robin, shocking! 
Positively most distressing! Country dances an’t 
a game of catch-as-catch-can, lad !” 

‘‘’Tis difficult to get round in time, on turf, sir,’^ 
laughed the boy, rubbing damp temples. “What 
now, Julie?” 

“Come be presented to Ralph Carew,” she called. 
“He’s to take us over to-morrow to Ash Holt 
Grange. Well then, if not to-morrow, next day! 
Lud, what a popinjay it is ! We can send a groom 
for your baggage, sir. Harry, you’ll ride with us ? 
And Colin and Robin and Philip and Lucy. And 
my uncle, of course. We’ll picnic in the park be- 
neath the haunted oak. Who is it walks there, 
Ralph?” 

Poor Carew muttered something inaudible and 
endeavored to edge away, but Miss Carmichael 
laid a compelling hand upon his arm. “Wait — 
you’ll come stay at the Manor and we’ll send for 
your clothes. Where did you say? An inn at — 
lud, sir! No excuses! My uncle will never for- 
give me if you refuse his hospitality. One might 
think from your ’havior that you wished to quarrel 
— ^you don’t? Then be persuaded.” 

“I’ll come when — after my baggage arrives,” he 
stammered. “I’m not prepared — faith. Miss Car- 
michael — you must see that ’tis impossible for me 
to visit in these rags. Wait until the day after to- 
morrow, and I’ll make the necessary arrangements. 
Gad, Julie, don’t be unreasonable.” 

Miss Carmichael pouted. “Oh, very well, sir. 


MAY DAY AT HAZELHURST 217 

But I shall expect you o* Thursday, clothed and in 
your right mind!” 

She gave him her hand to kiss; and he contrived 
to laugh and make his adieux, and slunk back to 
the Butterwick’s barn, where sprawling on the 
straw he worried over the situation, revolving every 
possible expedient, rejecting one plan after another 
until the dusk melted into night and he lay staring 
into the darkness of the timbered roof, utterly miser- 
able, unable to see a way out of the tangle into 
which his too susceptible heart had led him. 


CHAPTER XX 


YOUNG CAREW SEEKS ADVICE 

T he merrymaking continued on the green 
with increasing intervals for refreshment, 
until twilight fell. 

Robin Hood and Maid Marian danced and drank 
and ate until they could no more, but lay, replete 
and somnolent, in the lengthening shadows of the 
trees. Maid Marian, misliking his unaccustomed 
skirt, wriggled out of it and appeared in laced 
bodice, chip hat and breeches, to the huge delight 
of the children, who clamored for rides on the 
hobby-horse until the jester, who provided the legs 
of his steed, was thoroughly worn out. 

The Queen of May, a little tired of lonely state 
upon her throne, cast off her garlands and came 
down to join in the dances, to the distraction of 
half a dozen young fellows who considered they 
held a monopoly on her hand. 

Merodach and Dolly, side by side upon the turf, 
watched the foot races, the sack races, the young 
girls racing for a new smock. The Squire and the 
gentlemen of his party made up a purse for an 
impromptu wrestling match: young folk played 
Drop Handkerchief, and Oats and Beans; and an 
ancient in a round frock, pipe in one hand, mug in 
218 


YOUNG CAREW SEEKS ADVICE 219 

t’other, leaned against the wall of a booth, shut his 
eyes, and sang folk songs; his immediate neigh- 
bors joining lustily in the refrains. 

All day long the sun shone and the breeze kept 
one from growing too hot. The Squire, reveling 
in the customs of his forefathers, smiled largely 
upon the scene, forgot the curious incident of 
the young man in rags, and was completely happy. 

But Dorothy did not forget. She sat silent, dis- 
trait, threading daisies into a chain, replying 
absently to Merodach’s attempts at conversation; 
and thinking that she would be better alone for a 
while he excused himself, crossed to one of the 
booths and ate a belated dinner. 

The girl wound her flower-chain about her neck, 
clasped her hands over her knees and sat brooding, 
unconscious of the romping children, deaf to the 
shouted encouragement of the ring that watched the 
wrestlers; and not until a flushed gallant dropped 
beside her did she look up. 

“Fair maid,” simpered Colin Carmichael, laying 
a white hand on his tambour vest. “Behold me at 
your — hie! — your feet, an’ doocid pretty feet. I’ll 
swear, in spite of your — ahem! — clogs!” He 
giggled; an engaging if rather foolish young man, 
in whom there seemed nothing to fear. 

Dorothy thought it wise to fall in with his 
humor. 

“Fair sir,” said she. “Leave me, I would be 
alone.” 

“Ah, cruel one! You stab me with your doocid 


220 


MY LADY APRIL 


pretty eyes!” He edged nearer, languishing. 
‘^Behold me, Colin Carmichael, at your doocid 
pretty feet!” 

“Carmichael?” echoed Dorothy, roused. 

“Carmichael. Colin, son of Robert the Devil. 
I’m a bit of a devil myself, an’t I ?” 

“ ’Tis evident, sir,” agreed Dorothy. “And 
the young lady in lilac silk? Is she your sister?” 

“Julie? Gad, yes. Bless her soft heart. D’ye 
recognize the family likeness?” 

“She’s betrothed?” suggested the girl, ignoring 
an arm about her waist. 

“Lud, what do I know! She’s half a dozen gal- 
lants dangling. Her last flame is — hie ! — Ralph 
C-carew, doocid good fellow but woundily ill 
dressed. However” — he squeezed nearer — “we’ll 
none of him. What’s Ralph Carew to us, or we 
to Ralph Carew? Phutt! less than nothing. I’ll 
kiss you, sweet hedge-rose, and you’ll forget Ralph 
C-carew an’ all his works, so — ” 

Hot breath tainted with the fumes of wine smote 
upon her cheek. She scrambled to her feet, 
tripped, recovered, and was off apace, pursued by 
the impressionable Colin. 

Such a chase was merely one of many a May Day 
frolic: none dreamed of spoiling sport, but laughed 
and cheered them forward with hunting cries and 
deep-throated guffaws. The flying gypsy girl and 
the galloping gallant caused much amusement; but 
Dorothy lost her head. 

It would have been easy to submit to a kiss and 


YOUNG CAREW SEEKS ADVICE 221 


escape, if she had not begun to run. Once started, 
panic seized her and she dare not stop. Breath- 
less, frightened, she raced across the green, caught 
sight of the fiddler emerging from the eating-booth, 
and with a gasping, '‘Merodach! Save me!” 
flung herself into his arms. 

Taken utterly by surprise Merodach instinctively 
clutched her, kissed her, and became aware that 
they were the center of attraction. 

‘‘What the plague!” panted Colin Carmichael, 
catching at the Parson for support. “Wha — what 
did she call him? Merodach?’^ 

^'Merodach?” shouted the Squire, the Parson, 
Farmer Butterwick and the gentlemen from the 
Manor. 

“Merodach? Gad burn my soul!” 

“The Champion? Merodach? Rabbit me, what 
a wasted day!” 

“Merodach? Good heaven, sirs, who can we 
match him with?” 

“ 'Tis Merodach, fiddling for a parcel of clowns 
to dance! Oh, butter my wig!” 

Circling Dorothy with one arm, Merodach found 
himself pounded upon the back, shalken by the hand, 
deafened with cheers, apologies, explanations. Had 
they known, these gentlemen vociferated, had they 
dreamed who he was they’d have been condemned 
’fore they’d have allowed him to fiddle! A match! 
A match! Hal the wheelwright was a glutton for 
punishment, he’d be good for dozen rounds, at least. 
A match — a match! 


222 


MY LADY APRIL 


Merodach smiled and shook his head. “IVe a 
job on hand that bars fighting, sirs,” said he, when 
the hubbub had somewhat subsided. “When I’m 
free, mebbe I might obleege ye.” No amount of 
persuasion could move him. He picked up his 
fiddle and turned to the Squire. “Ye’ll not be 
needing more music to-night, sir? Then we’ll jog. 
My wife’s tired.” 

“Here, wait a bit, Merodach,” cried the Squire, 
suddenly diffident. “ ’Tis our custom to give the 
fiddler tuppence a head, but demme, we can hardly 
offer you that. If you’ll accept — ” 

“Thank’ee, Squire. Tuppence a head let it be. 
I’ve done no more for you than old Sam would.” 

The Squire beamed. Here was a man after his 
own heart. He whipped off his Kevenhuller and 
held it out. 

“Tuppence a head, lads, for the fiddler. Come, 
Carmichael — you’ve had your money’s worth ! 
Robin! Doctor, where’s yours? Oh, no change 
given. Ye’ll get no change from Merodach! Tup- 
pence a head. Good night to you, Mrs. Butterwick, 
ma-am. I shall call to-morrow to take a look at that 
ailing ewe. Good night, Tom. Keep away from 
the tavern, you rascal, you’ve had all you can carry. 
Good night, Betsy. Is it three times you’ve been 
church-called? Then come up to the Manor and 
bring your Harry, and my wife’ll see what she can 
find for ye. Good night! Good night!” 

Coppers clanked into the hat as the country folk 


YOUNG CAREW SEEKS ADVICE 223 

trailed past with bobs and pulled forelocks: until 
the Squire turned and emptied his load upon the 
ale-slopped table behind him. 

“You’ll not be able to carry this,” said he, “I’ll 
give you gold.” 

“Thank’ee, Squire. I’ll take a crown, and will 
ye send the rest on’t to old Sam? He’ll be laid up 
a while.” Merodach looked down into the kindly 
blue eyes beneath their scanty brows, and smiled. 
“This’d be a sad loss to old Sam, sir. And I’ve — 
plenty. Good night, and good-by. We’ll be off 
again to-morrow.” 

The Squire shook hands, nodded to Dorothy, 
abruptly turned on his heel and shovelled the cop- 
pers into his capacious pockets. “Good-by,” said 
he gruffly. “You’re a damned fine fellow, Mero- 
dach. If ever I can do aught for you — there, be 
off wi’ ye!” 

The chestnut bordered road was full of slowly 
sauntering couples, arm in arm, hand in hand: 
children lagged wearily behind their mothers : 
fathers carried sleepy toddlers: old folk hobbled 
bedward, silent, dim-eyed, remembering long-past 
May Days when they too had wandered home by 
way of Owl Copse and the kissing gate. 

Merodach slid an arm about Dorothy’s waist and 
sauntered with the rest, thrilled by the consciousness 
that the girl leaned against him. They said nothing, 
until pausing at the Butterwick’s gate a passing 
couple called, “Good night I” 


224 


MY LADY APRIL 


"'Good night!” returned Merodach, and waited, 
swinging back the green wicket as Dorothy passed 
him. 

A deep arch of yew blotted out the stars, and 
stumbling in the darkness the girl caught at Mero- 
dach’s shoulder. 

In an instant he had her in his arms. 

Breathless, tingling from head to foot, Dorothy 
lay dazed, stunned by the sudden passion of his 
embrace. Beside the gypsy’s kisses, young Carew’s 
were the mere awkward pecks of a diffident lad. 
She was too utterly overwhelmed to repulse him 
and remained motionless, until as suddenly as he 
had taken her, he let her go. 

‘"Gad!” he whispered, panting a little. “I’m a 
fool — I — faith, child, I couldn’t help it. Forgive 
me — 

She could not have spoken to save her life: she 
passed him, a hand to her burning face, and dis- 
appeared round the corner of the house. When 
after a moment he followed, she was not to be seen. 

Young Carew came yawning from the barn and 
perched upon the pump trough, kicking his heels. 

“Hallo,” said he. “A word with you, Mero- 
dach. I’m in the devil of a hole.” 

For once his egotism was a blessing. 

The gypsy sat down upon a hen-coop, thankful 
that the twilight hid his face, and that, as usual, 
Mr. Carew was solely concerned with himself. 

“At your service, sir,” says he, breathing deep 


YOUNG CAREW SEEKS ADVICE 225 

to check his galloping heart. Heavens! he had 
kissed her and she was not angry. She had lain pas- 
sive, unresisting, almost he could have sworn she 
responded — her lips — 

“Fm in the deuce of a messT^ moaned young 
Carew. 

“Are ye, sir? What's the trouble? From all 
I saw of you down on the green you seemed to be 
making the most of your time!” Merodach 
laughed. 

“Oh, devil take the women !” cried Carew. 
“They're for ever at me. I seem to draw 'em as 
a honey-pot draws wasps. 'Tis my cursed attrac- 
tiveness, Merodach. You can thank your stars 
you an't alluring!” 

“O lud, I do — I do!” said the gypsy solemnly. 
“Who's after ye now, sir? Was it the young 
'ooman in the laylock gown? A neat figure, on 
my soul!” 

“Faith, I should name no names, being as I hope 
a gentleman. But deuce take it. I’m at my wits’ 
end, and 'tis not as though you were — that is — 
demme, 'tis Miss Carmichael’s head over ears in 
love with me. I met her in Paris, and we — ^we 
saw a good deal of each other, but I swear I never 
gave her the least encouragement — I never offered 
myself! And now she chooses to conduct as if we 
were affianced — upbraids me for not having written 
— presents me to her uncle with all the airs of a 
wife — good gad, Merodach! What am I to do?” 


226 


MY LADY APRIL 


‘^Mr. Carmichaeril be her brother?’’ suggested 
Merodach, chewing a grass straw to keep his lips 
from twitching to a smile. 

*'Lud, yes. But what’s he — ?” 

‘‘A woundily fine swordsman, so I’ve heard.” 

‘‘Demme, d’ye think he’ll call me out?” quavered 
poor Ralph. 

“What other course has he, if ye jilt Miss?” 

“But I tell you we’re not betrothed!” 

“She’ll say ye are, and he’ll believe her.” Mero- 
dach pushed his fingers through his thick hair. 
“Lord, Lord ! what a plague is love I” he moralized, 
shaking with suppressed merriment. From his seat 
upon the empty hen-coop he could see the square 
window of the loft where Dorothy slept above the 
cow-house. In the gloom a golden head shone mis- 
tily like a full moon behind thin cloud. She could 
not move without betraying her presence to young 
Carew, and it was certain that she could hear every 
word. 

“Well?” pleaded Ralph. “What d’ye think? 
What would you do?” 

“Ecod, I’ve ne’er been plighted to two females at 
once.” 

“I tell you I’m not! I — ” 

“You’ve promised to wed Miss Forrest?” 

“Gad, yes. I said I would, spite of everything.” 

“Did she accept of ye, sir?” 

“Accept? Demme, wouldn’t she jump at the 
chance? Coming from — ” 


YOUNG CAREW SEEKS ADVICE 227 

“Well, but did she?’’ persisted the gypsy. 
“Look’ee, Mr. Carew, this is a serious affair.” 

“Oh, an’t I aware of that?” 

“Well, see now. Here’s you — here’s the two 
young ladies. You’re plighted to one and t’other 
claims ye. Ergo, you’ll have to break with one or 
t’other, this not being Turkey.” 

“Oh, od rot ye for a fool !” cried the lad, his voice 
catching in a sob. “Of course I shall! The ques- 
tion is, which one?” 

“D’ye love ’em both, sir?” pondered the gypsy. 

“O Lord! I’m damned if I love either! I wish 
’em at Jericho — scheming hussies! I’m sick o’ 
women — I wish I were dead ! I wish — ” 

“O come, pluck up heart, sir! Things are never 
as bad as they might be.” 

“I’m demmed if I can see how they could well 
be worse!” 

“While there’s life there’s hope,” said Merodach. 
“If I were you, sir. I’d toss.” 

'W-whatr 

“Toss, sir. Let fate decide. Spin a coin. 
Heads, Miss Carmichael gets ye. Tails, Miss — ” 

“Look ye, my man. I’ve not sunk quite so low 
as that !” declared Carew, sliding from his perch and 
standing rigid. 

“Oh, no offense,” returned Merodach cheerfully. 
“You asked my advice, sir. What I says is — let fate 
decide. If you object, well” — he shrugged — “ye’ll 
ha’ to wriggle out o’ the mess another way.” 


228 


MY LADY APRIL 


'^Lud, what odious expressions you do use, to be 
sure !” Carew turned, dug his hands into his pockets 
and began to ramp to and fro in the restricted space 
between the hen-coop and the cow-house wall, unable 
to go farther without falling over Merodach’s long 
legs. 

“If I can be of service ye can count on me,'* said 
Merodach heartily. 

“Thank’ee. I think not. But gad! I'd forgot. 
Miss Carmichael’s planned a picnic. I’ve had to per- 
mit her to send a groom to the Goat and Compasses 
for my baggage : he’ll be back to-morrow night and 
then I shall be constrained to stay at the Manor a day 
or two and ride to Ash Holt Grange o’ Thursday, 
and I—" 

“That’ll be Sir Valerius Carew’s country place, 
now his uncle’s dead?” 

“To be sure. I want to warn the servants to open 
the house and light fires and prepare a meal. Er — 
being in a way — host — I feel it my duty to arrange 
for the comfort of my guests, d’ye see?” 

“Quite so, sir,” agreed Merodach. “No news of 
the missing heir, sir?” 

“None.” 

“Warrant still out, sir?” 

“Yes, of course.” 

Merodach rose slowly to his lithe height. “Well, 
to obleege ye, Mr. Carew, I’ll go to Ash Holt Grange 
and tell ’em you’re coming. 'Tis but a couple o’ mile 
out of our road.” 

“Your road?” 


YOUNG CAREW SEEKS ADVICE 229 

'To Winterbourne, sir. Miss Forrest’g eager to 
be at her cousin’s.’' 

“Why, I’d thought she’d wait for me,” said young 
Carew. “Mrs. Butterwick’d let you stay on here 
another day or two. I’ve no doubt you could make 
yourself useful. You can’t take Miss Forrest on 
alone.” 

“She’d be as safe with me as with you !” retorted 
Merodach heatedly. 

“I tell you I’ll not have it !” 

“And what would Miss Carmichael say to that?” 

“Oh, damn Miss Carmichael!” exclaimed Ralph 
bitterly. “Here we are back at the same point after 
all this discussion.” 

“ ’Tis the way of discussions, sir. Like toad- 
stools, they grow in circles and ’tis waste o’ time to 
pick ’em. Best sleep on it, sir. I’ll start for Ash 
Holt bright an’ early, so ye can set your heart at 
rest on that count. I’ll arrange for a warm recep- 
tion, never fear!” 

Young Carew stared, concluded that the fellow 
meant well, and lounged dejectedly toward the barn. 
“I’ll give you my commands in the morning,” said 
he over his shoulder. 

Merodach waited until he was out of sight and 
threw a pebble into the loft. 

A pale face lifted above the window-sill. 

“You heard, child?” 

“I — I couldn’t help but hear. Why didn’t you 
take him away?” 

“Trust me, ’tis all for the best. To-morrow, 


230 


MY LADY APRIL 


agree to everything I suggest. I have a plan. 
There’s a way out o’ this coil, if you’ll follow me.’* 

She nodded, choking back her tears, gazing down 
at him from the dusty darkness of the haymow. 
“I promise. Good night.” 

''Good night.” Merodach hesitated, kicking at a 
stray turnip. 

"You want to tell me — now?” breathed Miss 
Forrest, leaning out. 

"I — gad, no, child. Wait until to-morrow.” 
He strode rapidly away; but the girl remained at 
the window, her cheek against the gray, weathered 
oak of the frame, her lips faintly smiling. 

"Until to-morrow?” said she, and caught her 
breath in a sigh. "Merodach, I think you’ve told 
me — already.” 


CHAPTER XXI 


THE ROAD TO ASH HOLT 

W ITH the flat feeling that inevitably fol- 
lows festivity, the village of Hazel- 
hurst set about its tasks next morning. 
Rain had fallen during the night and the roads were 
slippery with mud: garlands tossed aside and for- 
gotten lay withering in odd corners : the very May- 
pole wore a dejected air, as though it were unwill- 
ing to stand neglected for another year. 

The wattle bowers were being carried away as 
Merodach and Dorothy crossed the green, and a 
couple of carters nodded and stared after them, 
pausing in their work of loading the hurdles on to 
a wagon. 

‘‘Merodach,’’ grunted one. 

“Ay,” responded the other. 

“Squire made a terrible gurt fuss over him, 
surely. What’s he done?” queried the boy at the 
horse’s head. 

“Done ? Lumme, not to know Merodach !” 
“Nubbody knowed him till his wife squealed out 
his name,” retorted the lad, nettled. 

“What I mean is, heard on him. He be a 
larmentable sprackish fighter, Merodach. Come up 
on top, as it were, all on a sudden like. Never 
heard tell on him one day, an’ nexdy ’twere all over 
231 


232 


MY LADY APRIL 


the parish. Doctor were norating over it to Mus 
Pagden, as how Merodach beat his trainer Jack 
Broughton an’ adunnamany other champions within 
a month. That were a year ago, mebbe. Then, 
look’ee, what’s he do but disappear, an’ naun to show 
where he’d gone. Then, ecod, up he pops some- 
wheres, wins a match, an’ disappears agen, like to 
a Punch an’ Judy show. Pegs! he’s a fair wonner! 
We can count oursel’s in luck to ha’ set eyes on 
him. ’Tain’t many as can say that!” 

“Why, don’t he show to every one ?” said the lad 
in a scared whisper. 

“Show?” 

“Ay. Mebbe he’s a farisee.” 

The carters stared at one another. “What the 
rabbits ! Mebbe he is I” said they. 

Silent with a new shyness, Dorothy followed the 
gypsy beneath the dripping oaks to a by-lane, wind- 
ing capriciously through thickets of hazel and birch 
copses to a stretch of heathery common and so to the 
forest that clothes the country-side about Ash Holt. 

She could not have analyzed her feelings: a 
vague unrest ; a longing to know beyond all possible 
doubt ; a dread that he would speak ; a dread that he 
would not ; wonder at herself, and bubbling laughter 
when she thought of poor Carew — all these and a 
dozen other emotions rioted within her as she 
trudged ankle-deep in wet leaves and sparkling 
grass, carrying her bundle on her hip. 

It is to be assumed that Merodach was in much 
the same state of ferment. He strode ahead whis- 


THE ROAD TO ASH HOLT 233 

tling spasmodically ; twirling a ground ash ; pausing 
to watch the antics of a squirrel or a pair of bicker- 
ing jays. From time to time he turned to glance at 
the girl, and went on without a word; until as the 
forest closed about them he came to a sudden halt 
and stood, breathing quickly, staring down at her. 

The bundle dropped from Dorothy’s fingers as 
their eyes met, the hot blood surged into her face 
beneath his glance. He stepped nearer and she did 
not move, but like a frightened bird remained mo- 
tionless, palpitating. 

He said nothing, but took her; and the world 
swam about them in a dizzy silence. 

When after an eternity she opened her eyes there 
was nothing to be seen but brown cheek and ruffied 
black hair. 

‘'Merodach !” she murmured, sighing in vast con- 
tent, and slid both arms about his neck. 

After another eternity she looked up again; and 
held him off a little; and tried to laugh and sobbed 
instead : 

‘‘Merodach — ” 

“Child!” he whispered shakily. “You’re cry- 
ing!” 

“I’m not — I am! Mayn’t I cry for joy? O 
lud, Merodach — I’m not made of wood!” 

“Faith, no, dear heart.” He touched her ten- 
derly. “You’re all sweet curves. Did I crush you? 
I’m mad, I think.” 

“We’re both mad, hopelessly lunatic. And I — 
I like it—” 


234 


MY LADY APRIL 


Whereupon there was no more to be said. 

They went on after a time, very close together. 

^‘You called me ‘wife’ last night,” she reminded 
him shyly. 

‘T did! ’Twas shameless in me, but I wanted 
to hear how it sounded. Wife! A tinker’s wife, 
as Mr. Carew put it.” 

“Ah, poor Ralph!” 

“O lud, he’ll survive it. The wretched youth’s 
half crazed with terror. ‘Apollo flies and Daphne 
holds the chase.’ Miss Carmichael will teach him 
his manage. Look, here’s a throne for you. Queen 
of May. They should have crowned you yesterday, 
instead of that little red-head !” 

“She was pretty,” said Dorothy, pausing beside 
the fallen trunk of a beech. “La, this tree’s 
soaking.” 

“It won’t soak through my breeches,” said he, 
slipping the pack from his back. “Come !” 

They lingered there, still wrapped up in the mys- 
terious wonder of each other; still groping in a 
world that was a little unreal, insecure, liable to 
melt at a breath, as the land of dream melts upon 
awakening into the stable, rather dreary world of 
every day. 

The sun broke through rapidly thinning clouds 
and struck down into the heart of the green wood- 
land, turning every raindrop to a twinkling jewel; 
shining through translucent beech leaves; caught 
and imprisoned in Dorothy’s tumbled hair. 


THE ROAD TO ASH HOLT 235 

Wood sorrel, growing in the rotting stump of the 
beech, expanded in the warmth, opening its frail 
trefoil leaves to the sun. The girl leaned forward 
to pluck a bit and nibbled it, gazing dim-eyed at 
nothing. 

Merodach looked at her. 

‘'D’you think you can stand it?’' he asked at 
length, touching her slim hands. 

“W-what?” 

‘Tramping?” 

‘T can try,” said she. “But later on, when winter 
comes, it would be nice to have a little house.” 

“Nice? Inadequate woman! ’Twould be elys- 
ium. But — ” 

“Then perhaps one of those black tents, or a cara- 
van,” pondered Dorothy. “Anywhere—” 

“Well?” he teased her as she faltered. 

“Anywhere — with you!” She relaxed, obeying 
the pressure of his arm. “I’m a headlong creature, 
an’t I? Vastly imprudent! I eloped with Mr. 
Carew the second — the third time ever I saw 
him.” 

“My parents were as headlong,” he said. “My 
father was but two-and-twenty, traveling with his 
tutor, when at a carnival in Madrid he picked up 
a rose intended for another man. It had a message 
on a strip of paper round the stem. He gave his 
tutor the slip, followed the girl who had thrown the 
flower, discovered where she lived and kept the tryst 
that night. They were wed next day.” 


MY LADY APRIL 


236 

‘La/’ sighed Dorothy. “How deliciously ro- 
mantic !” 

Merodach grinned. “The tutor didn’t find it 
so ! He was half out of his mind, and fled back to 
England and took a living in the wilds of York- 
shire to escape my grandad’s wrath. He’d never 
have got another pupil, after losing one in that 
fashion !” 

“And what of your parents?” 

“Oh, they wandered about Spain. My mother 
hid herself from pursuit. There was a wealthy 
old rake after her, whom she loathed, and ’twas to 
escape marriage with him that she flung a rose to 
a mask at the carnival. They lived as gypsies 
live — wind- free. I was born in a ditch, and please 
God I’ll die in one, under the stars!” 

Instinctively her arms tightened about his neck. 
“I don’t want to speak of death,” she whispered, 
and hid her face. “Tell me of your mother.” 

Merodach shook his head. “Words are poor 
things. She was the merriest creature. IVe seen 
her fall into a stream and come up drenched, and 
crawl to land and sit laughing, wringing the 
water from her clothes. If it rained, she laughed. 
If it shone, she laughed. If the wind tore at her 
she went frantic with delight. But — she died 
when I was twelve. After that my father and I 
wandered half over Europe — the sunny half. I 
know France, Spain, Italy, better than many of 
the natives who lived out their days in one village. 
Then my father died, and wandering seemed to 


THE ROAD TO ASH HOLT 237 

lose its charm, and I came home to England — 
lonely — ” He stopped, frowning a little. 

‘‘And then, beloved?” urged the girl, and 
smoothed out the wrinkle between his eyes with a 
finger-tip. 

“The rest of the story must wait,” he said 
decisively. “You shall know it all, one day. 
We must on to Ash Holt, and remember, you’ve 
promised to agree to everything I suggest.” 

She nodded. “I promised.” 

“Even if it seems churlish in me, even if you 
can’t understand?” 

“I promise.” 

“You’ll trust me?” 

Her eyes filled with sudden tears. “I’ll try to 
— I’ll do as you say. But don’t — don’t make it 
too hard for me, Merodach.” 

He bent his head to kiss her. 

They ate of the food Mrs. Butterwick had given 
them, drank from a chalk stream and wandered 
on ; until the red-brown walls of Ash Holt 
Grange appeared, and Merodach halted, a delay- 
ing hand upon her arm. 

“Here we part. Faith, child, only for half an 
hour. I must go tell the servants of the impend- 
ing descent of Ralph and his guests. There’s a 
summer-house somewhere near, where you can 
wait.” 

“You know the place?” cried she, bewildered. 

“I have been here before. The butler’s an old 
friend of mine.” He lifted her to the top of the 


238 


MY LADY APRIL 


wall, threw the bundles over and climbed after, 
dropping to mossed turf beneath a great chestnut, 
alight with its candles of spiked bloom. 

Radiant, laughing, she slid out of his arms, and 
he led her across the park to a thatched arbor on 
the borders of a pool. 

Here he left her, and went through rose garden 
and pleached alley to the kitchen gardens, and so 
to the stable-yard where, ramping behind bars, a 
dozen couple of hounds belled a welcome, sterns 
waving, brown eyes wistful for caresses. 

“Now then!” shouted a groom, emerging from 
the coach-house, cloth in one hand, a bridle half 
polished dangling from the other. “Now then, take 
yerself out o’ this!” 

“Is Mr. Marsh within?” asked Merodach. 

“What’s that to you?” 

“Go tell him a gypsy wants to see him.” 

“I’ll be shot if I do!” cried the lad, and swung 
about as a man came out of the back porch and 
stood blinking in the sunshine. 

“What’s all this?” said he. “Ecod, I’ve been 
looking for you. Come your ways in. Mike, go 
trot into the harness room, my lad, an’ get the rust 
off that bridle, ’less you want your nose rubbed 
on’t! ’Tis in a shockin’ state!” 

Dumb with disgust, the young groom stared at 
the speckless bridle, scratched his head, stared at 
the gypsy, stared at the butler, and retired, 
growling. 


THE ROAD TO ASH HOLT 239 

Merodach followed the old fellow into the 
buttery. 

“Well, Marsh,” said he, “how fares it with you? 
Sit down, man, and let me have all the news.” 

Coughing apologetically. Marsh subsided on to a 
bench, and told his tale. 

This one was dismissed for laziness ; this one was 
put into his place. One of the maids had lately 
wed a carter. Such and such a horse was lame. 
These fields were down for pasture, these were 
sown. So many lambs ; so many pups ; five young 
calves and half a hundred chicks and ducklings. 

“Everything flourishes?” said Merodach com- 
fortably. “ ^Tis very well. Mr. Ralph sent me 
to warn you that ’tis his intent to come to-morrow 
with ten or a dozen guests. Rooms are to be 
opened, fires lit, meals prepared. He wishes to 
impress a certain young lady with his — er — heri- 
tage. Gad, Joseph, you’ll do yourself a hurt if 
you laugh so!” 

“Heritage? Damme!” The butler wiped merry 
eyes, choking, spluttering, lying back against the 
wall to hold his sides. 

Merodach prodded him with an impressive fore- 
finger. 

“You’ll treat Mr. Ralph as though he were 
already your master. Understand that Mr. Valerius 
still hides. Mr. Ralph confidently expects never to 
see him more, and will conduct according. Why — 
what's that?” 


240 


MY LADY APRIL 


A bell rang somewhere in the house above them. 
The butler’s face regained its normal serenity. 

‘"Ecod,” said he. ‘T’d forgot. ’Tis a Mr. 
Cavanagh come a-seeking ye. It seems he has 
news, though what it is I can’t discover. He 
arrived last night, all of a lather with impatience, 
and could hardly wait till I’d got into my breeches 
to let him in. Had you come, had I heard from 
you, had I this and had I t’other, until blest if I 
knew whether I stood on my head or my heels. A 
most hurryful gent, on my soul!” 

“Let be,” said the gypsy, rising. “I’ll go to him. 
Which room, Joseph?” 

“The oak parlor, sir,” responded Marsh. “Will 
ye dine?” 

“Faith, yes. Later, when I’ve seen Cavanagh.” 
Merodach swung off to the oak parlor, and enter- 
ing, found the Irishman at ease, his chair tilted on 
to its back legs, his feet propped against the 
chimney-breast, basking in the warmth of a wood 
fire with his wig upon the table. 

“Oh,” says he without looking round. “And 
hasn’t that lazy rascal Merodach arrived yet. 
Marsh?” 

“Apparently,” returned Merodach, coming for- 
ward, utterly unprepared for the wild yell with 
which Cavanagh leapt to his feet. The chair 
crashed over backward, but Merodach caught it 
before it reached the floor. 

“Good ged — damned neat!” cried Larry, tugging 
at something in his coat pocket. “What d’ye think? 


THE ROAD TO ASH HOLT 241 


Carew’s cleared!” He slapped a folded paper on 
to the table and laughed triumphantly. 

Merodach shot a glance at him, bent forward and 
picked up the document. RobinSlon, her 

mark?” said he, staring at the signature. ‘What 
the deuce is this?” 

“Read!” cried Cavanagh, capering. “Read!” 


CHAPTER XXII 


ASH HOLT GRANGE 

LONE in the thatched arbor Dorothy- 



waited, watching swallows skimming the 


X JL surface of the pond, flycatchers feeding as 
they hovered, blue tits building in a flowery bush, 
thrushes patrolling a patch of turf for the unwary 
worm. Relaxing, she curled up on the seat, laid her 
head on her bundle and drifted into slumber, dream- 
ing that she was the Princess Beauty and that Mero- 
dach was the Beast, imploring her to wed him. A 
shadow fell across the doorway, and she awoke to 
And Larry Cavanagh bending over her. 

'‘Merodach sent me,'’ said he. ‘T’m to be taken’ 
ye up to the house.” 

Amazed, she stared at him. 

"‘You find it strange to see me here?” he added, 
and stooped to lift the baggage. 

“I — yes, I hardly expected it.” She rose, smiling 
a little uncertainly. ‘‘Merodach — ?” 

“Faith, Merodach’s had news that’ll keep him 
busy for a day or two. The butler and his wife 
and myself will be lookin’ after ye. This way — 

He led her through the gardens ; along the 
pleasance, divided into square closes where the pink 


ASH HOLT GRANGE 


243 


of apple blossoms shone above the clipped yew 
hedges; up to the terraced walk, gay with nodding 
daffodils and early gillyflowers; and so to the great 
porch, where Marsh and the gray-haired woman 
waited at the head of the steps to welcome her. 

'‘Miss Forrest’ll be wishful to see her room,’^ 
suggested Cavanagh, depositing his load upon a 
seat in the hall. “Follow Mrs. Marsh, me dear. 
Sure, ’tis a big house, but if ye get lost ye can yell!” 

The butler took her valise, Mrs. Marsh, scanda- 
lized but calm, carried the bundles; and the girl 
moved as in a dream up the wide oak staircase with 
its carved balustrade and leisurely, shallow steps, 
to the branching gallery above. 

“The west wing, ma’am,” says Mrs. Marsh, turn- 
ing down a corridor. “Here Sir Julian would have 
lodged his lady, had he married. ’Tis years since 
he was here, preferring town, ma’am, and the Bath. 
Mr. Valerius, being heir, had the run of the place. 
He uses these rooms when he’s here, which ain’t 
often, ma’am, an’ when he does come he’s that soli- 
tary he might a’most as well be an eremite, shutting 
hisself up an’ seeing no one but Marsh. They say 
he hates all women since his mother died. No, she 
were never here, ma’am. Old Sir Antony refused 
to meet her, and Mr. Raymond being a proud man 
an’ desp’rate hot-blooded, he refused to come with- 
out her. And so his father never saw him again, 
ma’am. Not since he married.” She opened a door 
and stepped aside for Dorothy to enter. “The 
boudoir, ma’am. The bedchamber lies yonder. I 


244 


MY LADY APRIL 


trust you’ll be comfortable, ma’am. There’s the bell 
rope. I’ll bring some bow-pots. Mebbe ye’ll like 
to fill ’em with flowers yourself?” 

'‘Yes, thank you,” murmured Dorothy, lost in 
wonder, recognizing Merodach’s thought behind the 
housekeeper’s words. 

Alone in the big room she wandered from hearth 
to window, from window to settee, her eyes roving 
for some token, some message. 

She found nothing in the boudoir, but in the 
bedroom a tiny bunch of sweet violets, still wet with 
rain, lay on her dressing-table. She set them in 
water and unpacked, shaking out her creased cloth- 
ing, smoothing muslins, hanging a flowered gown 
before the fire. 

An hour later, Mr. Cavanagh, feigning to read 
in the hall, became aware that a lady descended; 
and rose, book in hand, bowing to the skins that 
strewed the polished floor. 

"Good ged,” he declared, laughing. "I protest, 
ma’am, I didn’t know you !” 

Dorothy smiled and spread her skirts, preening 
herself, demurely content to be clad daintily once 
more. "There was no need to go in rags, was 
there? Merodach — wouldn’t mind?” 

"Mind? Good ged, not if he could see you!” 

"And have you permission to show me the house 
and gardens?” 

"The whole blessed Ark-load!” 

"Ark?” 

"Oh, ’tis a farm we inhabit, me dear! Cows, 


ASH HOLT GRANGE 


245 

sheep, ducks, geese, foxhounds, horses, dogs — well 
now, an’ will ye look at that ?” 

A grave setter walked sedately in, gazed inquir- 
ingly from Cavanagh to Dorothy, and slowly waved 
a plumy flag. 

‘‘Dear boy !” said she, holding out her hand. 

He came, sniffed, regarded her with liquid eyes 
and laid his beautiful head upon her knee. Dorothy 
took his face between her hands, smoothed the silky 
hair, kissed him, and from that moment he never 
left her. While they dined he lay beside her chair : 
when they walked he paced at her side, pausing 
tolerantly to give her time to admire the broods of 
chickens ; the lambs in the flowery orchard ; the fox- 
hounds, indignant and jealous, pawing at their 
bars. 

She seemed content to wander about the gardens 
with Cavanagh, and if she ached to ask a thousand 
questions, she did not show it. 

The Irishman was evidently laboring under 
some concealed emotion. At times he laughed for 
no apparent reason. At times he gave absurd 
replies to her most innocent remarks, and when she 
looked amazed, confessed that he did not know 
what he had said. 

At ten she took her candle, went above-stairs, fol- 
lowed by the setter, and coming into her boudoir 
beheld Merodach, cross-legged before the hearth. 

“You?” she cried. “They told me you had 
gone !” 

“They believed it,” he said, fondling the ecstatic 


MY LADY APRIL 


246 

dog. *‘Down, Ranger, down! Mrs. Marsh saw to 
your comfort, child?” 

She made a little gesture toward the glowing fire, 
the flowers that stood in bowls about the place; 
and smiled. 

“I came back because I remembered that you’d 
vowed not to sleep in a house until you reached 
Winterbourne.” He put the leaping setter aside 
and went to Dorothy. “Vows, even foolish vows, 
are not to be lightly broke, sweetheart.” He bent 
to kiss her fingers as she hesitated. “Remember, 
you promised.” 

“I promised. What am I to do?” she said 
simply. 

“Go dress in your gypsy things, and bring a 
shawl and a blanket from your bed.” 

She went obediently as a child ; returned, and he 
led her from the boudoir to a tiny chamber in the 
wall, opening on a stair: the night closed, cool and 
fresh about them as they came out into the gardens. 
Ranger close at their heels. 

“I’ve made a nest for you,” said Merodach 
presently, coming to a halt in one of the square 
closes of the ancient pleasance, where walled about 
with thick yew hedges a lawn lay shadowed by a 
gnarled apple tree. He knelt to arrange a bed of 
dried fern, covered with a couple of carriage rugs. 

“Ranger’ll stay with you,” he added, tucking her 
in. 

She looked up. “And you?” 

“I shall be— within call.” 


ASH HOLT GRANGE 


247 

had rather you were — within reach/^ she 
whispered. 

^‘Had you? Are you nervous? You’ve slept 
out before.” 

“Only once, and then — you were on the other 
side o’ the fire,” she reminded him, and slid her 
hands behind his head to draw it lower. “The 
night’s so — so very big, Merodach.” 

Silent, awed by her faith in him, he fetched his 
bed from the next close and settled down so that 
at arm’s length their hands could touch. 

Above them the stars shone pale in the deeps of 
the sky. A nightingale, shyly, as though he knew 
the time was not yet come, was trying one note 
after another, practicing the love song he would sing 
as May blossomed into June. 

Ranger scratched loose some fern, circled twice, 
curled up, and slept between them until morning. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


‘‘t’other dear charmer” 

M rs. marsh, appearing with a tray 
of chocolate and buttered rolls, found 
Dorothy flushed and dewy-eyed, huddling 
into her cold bed. She drew the curtains, remark- 
ing that it had been a fine night. 

Dorothy supposed so. 

“Mr. Ralph is to ride over with a party,” said the 
housekeeper, letting spring sunshine flood the room. 
“But Marsh’ll not show ’em this wing. If you 
keep this side o’ the house, ma’am, you’ll not be dis- 
turbed.” 

Sipping hot chocolate, Dorothy nodded, wonder- 
ing what Mrs. Marsh thought of her presence there. 

“Marsh has his orders,” said the old woman, 
folding her hands beneath her elbows and con- 
templating Dorothy from the foot of the bed. 
“Dear knows what they be, he’s as mum as a tad- 
pole ! But being Mr. Raymond’s body-servant 
afore Mr. Valerius were born, an’ after he grew up, 
his man, ’tis but natural he should cling to the 
family. We were wed late in life, ma’am. We’ve 
no children, so I mother Joseph. He’s nought but 
a child — some men never do grow up — an’ a child 
with a secret, well, there’s no holding ’em!” 

248 


“T’OTHER DEAR CHARMER” 249 


‘‘A secret?’’ echoed Dorothy, not liking to snub 
the good woman, and yet fearful of prying. ‘‘Has 
he a secret?” 

“La, yes, ma’am. For years an’ years he’s been 
a-hidin’ something, ever since Mr. Valerius come 
home from furren parts. Dear knows what it is, 
an’ I can’t find out. It gets on my nerves a bit, 
ma’am, but I don’t complain. Marsh is a good 
husband, as husbands go. And I thank heaven 
there ain’t no one to be jealous of !” 

The idea of suspecting Marsh guilty of even the 
mildest flirtation was too much for Miss Forrest, 
and she collapsed gurgling in the depths of her pil- 
lows. 

Resigned to the eccentricities of quality, Mrs. 
Marsh collected the chocolate service and padded 
out. Dorothy lingered over a luxurious toilet : it 
was a change to use fine towels and dainty china 
after kneeling on the damp turf beside a brook. 

Toward noon a cavalcade appeared, tittuping 
along the chestnut drive: young Carew, debonair, 
clad in his best and mounted on the Squire’s pet 
hunter. Ladybird: Miss Carmichael, swaying on 
her mare like a titmouse on a twig: the Squire, 
jogging on his piebald. Marigold; Robin, and Lucy 
Hazelhurst attended by three adoring gallants. 

They trotted up and dismounted at the porch 
where Marsh awaited them, and a stable-lad came 
forward to take the horses. 

“Ah, Marsh,” says Ralph, handing Miss Car- 


250 


MY LADY APRIL 


michael up the steps. ‘‘How are ye? Wife and 
family well? We must have a talk before I leave, 
and ril cast a glance over your books.” 

“Thank ye, Mr. Ralph,” returned the old servant 
sedately. “Will you dine now, or see the house 
first?” 

Ralph consulted Miss Carmichael. 

“Oh, the gardens!” cried she. Let’s explore the 
gardens. ’Tis too early yet for dinner, and we can 
see the house later.” 

“Very good, sir,” said Marsh, and hurried in- 
doors. 

The Squire watched in some disgust as Carew 
and the other young men vanished down the terrace 
in the wake of fluttering habits: and with a bridle 
in each hand, led his favorites to the stable-yard, 
discoursing meanwhile on the heinous practice of 
leaving the care of one’s horse to hirelings. 

Following with his dapplegray and Lucy’s roan, 
Robin listened respectfully, although he knew the 
little homily by heart. 

“One day your life may depend upon your steed,” 
cries the Squire, unsaddling briskly. “(Boy, get 
me a handful of hay. Steady, Marigold, you 
demmed kitten !) If you an’t able to call your horse 
to hand — (whoa, there!) — to hand, I say, and 
mount, d’ye see, Robin? gad, you may be left 
wounded on the field — ” 

“And lose the fox, sir,” added the boy mischiev- 
ously. 

“Fox? Demme, sir, the field of battle! Who’s 
talking of hunting? Now train your animal to 


“T’OTHER DEAR CHARMER” 251 


stand, to answer to his name — (hold up, Marigold, 
what the devil ails the beast?) — and where, I say, 
where are you — er — there you are!” 

''There indeed, sir!” agreed Robin dutifully. 

They saw their horses watered and fed, and satis- 
fied that they were comfortable, wandered from the 
stable to kennels and so on to the gardens; where 
they discovered Lucy enthroned upon a seat, miracu- 
lously contriving to keep her three adorers in ami- 
able converse with each other. 

"Hallo?’ said her father, coming up. "Where’s 
Julie?” 

"La, sir. Mr. Carew carried her off to see a fish 
pond, I believe.” 

"Sacred to the memory of his youth,” added 
Colin. 

"He fished?” said the Squire, interested at once. 

"Lud, no, sir ! He fell in.” 

Miss Hazelhurst rose and gathered up her trailing 
habit. "Mr. Carmichael, have you my whip? My 
gloves? Oh, Mr. Wallace has them. Shall we 
walk ? There are buds in the rose garden as big as 
filberts, father. Come see.” 

Strolling down the shady pleasance young Carew 
had leisure to observe Miss Carmichael’s ear; the 
curls that escaped from beneath her beaver; and the 
slim neck, rising white above her laced cravat. She 
resolutely kept her shoulder to him. 

"Lud, I believe you’ve not forgiven me yet, Julie,” 
said he, aggrieved. 

"For which fault, sir ? For neglecting me shame- 


252 


MY LADY APRIL 


lessly? For not writing? Or for refusing to dis- 
close the reason of your intriguing pilgrimage in 
rags ?” 

'‘I’ve explained that was a secret,” expostulated 
Ralph. “Julie, don’t spoil my day by being cruel.” 

“ ’Tis news that cruelty of mine can hurt you, sir !” 

“I’m devilish miserable 1” said he, and in truth he 
thought he was. 

She turned large eyes upon him and laid her hand 
on his sleeve. “Poor lad, did I plague you? Well, 
for this one day. I’ll be kind, nay more! I’ll be in- 
discreet. You shall imagine me your wife, and 
show me all our domain. We are but just home 
from our honeymoon, Ralph, and I — lud, sir ! Don’t 
impose on my generosity! I gave you my hand!” 

He took her waist. “If you’ll wed me, Julie, I 
swear I’ll — ” 

“O la, sir, we are wed — a full month!” 

“Gad, I’m in earnest !” 

She pouted. “You ask too much, i’faith. I 
give you a day and you demand a life-time. Lud, 
sir, can’t you play?” 

“No! I’m damned if I will!” 

“Then if you won’t, baby, go sulk by yourself !” 
She laughed and fled, impeded by her habit, intend- 
ing him to overtake her. 

He caught her just within the entrance to an 
apple-shaded close: caught her, kissed her, and be- 
came aware of Miss Forrest, wide-eyed upon a heap 
of dead fern. 


“T’OTHER DEAR CHARMER” 253 

She rose, outraged dignity personified; a book of 
verse in one hand, the other restraining a growling 
setter. 

‘‘Ralph!” said she, coached to her part by Mero- 
dach before they parted in the dawn. 

“Good gad — Dolly!” gasped young Carew, and 
dropped Miss Carmichael as she had been a hot coal. 

“Explain your conduct, sir,” says Miss Forrest, 
biting twitching lips. 

“ ^DollyT' cried Miss Carmichael in the same 
breath. “What’s this, Ralph? ’Tis the peddler 
wench!” 

Between the cross-fire of their eyes poor Carew 
stood stammering; scarlet to the ears; leaving a 
dozen sentences half spoken; wishing the green earth 
would yawn and swallow him up. 

“Lud, the creature’s stricken dumb,” said Miss 
Carmichael, when at length he fell silent and turned 
to Dorothy. “Perhaps you’ll be good enough to en- 
lighten me, ma’am?” 

“With pleasure, ma’am,” replied Miss Forrest. 
“Mr. Carew eloped with me less than a week ago, 
but meeting with you at Hazelhurst he sends me on 
here to await his leisure.” Her cool voice carried 
conviction to the flaming Julie. 

“Are you wed, ma’am?” she asked, utterly ignor- 
ing the miserable Ralph. 

“No, ma’am. Mr. Carew promised to carry me 
to Sussex, and the wedding was to take place from 
my cousin’s, Jillian Tyrell of Winterbourne Chase. 
You may have heard of her»” 


254 


MY LADY APRIL 


‘Tyrell ? I thought you — 

la, 'twas but a disguise,*’ said Dorothy, 
shrugging. 

Miss Carmichael looked at Carew, but there was 
no need of affirmation other than his scarlet face. 
“O Ralph, how have you deceived me!” said she, 
smothering a desire to shriek with laughter. 
^'Ma’am, I give you my word he offered marriage, 
swore a hundred tender vows, plagued me to death — 
well! I believe you must have seen him kiss me, 
but now?” 

did, ma’am,” responded Dolly, divining with 
feminine intuition what the other girl would be at. 
“That is, I believe he calls it kissing. ’Tis mon- 
strous like a boy at bob-apple!” She glanced de- 
murely at the writhing Ralph. 

“O ma’am, how can we punish him?” cried Julie, 
running to Dorothy and catching her hands. “ ’Tis 
the most false-hearted knave, the most perfid- 
ious popinjay! Trust me, he needs a lesson!” 

“Lud, we can wed another!” suggested Dolly. 
“Two others, ma’am!” 

Their dancing eyes met and they broke into peals 
of merry laughter, while Carew, feeling like a 
drowning man who suddenly touches solid ground, 
lifted his shamed head to stare, unable to believe 
that he was free. 

“Sir!” Dolly curtsied to the petal-strewn turf, 
gurgling with laughter. “I have the honor to re- 
fuse your hand. Your heart, I think, was never 
in question!” 


“T’OTHER DEAR CHARMER” 255 

“Sir !’’ giggled Julie, recovering. “I grieve to de- 
cline your honorable proposal. Doubtless time 
alone will heal your shattered heart. Come, dear, 
let us leave him for five minutes !” 

Arm in arm they swept out through the arch of 
yew, flushed faces turned in dainty malice to catch 
a last glimpse of their rejected cavalier. Their 
laughter floated back to him over the hedge, 
mingled with a scrap of song : 

*'How happy could I he with either, 

Were t’other dear charmer away — 

Young Carew picked up his hat, shook a fallen 
petal out of the crown and glanced upward into the 
flowering apple tree. 

“Good gad!” said he piously, and mopped his 
brow. 


CHAPTER XXIV 


IN THE WEST WING 

F rom the depths of depression Ralph swung 
naturally enough to the other extreme. If 
by no exertions of his own he was out of the 
wood, still he was out. He hallooed, mentally he 
slapped himself upon the back. He was a mon- 
strous clever fellow. Gad, ’twas good to be alive, 
and young. But he would have a care how he con- 
ducted with women in future. Sly creatures, for 
ever making long eyes at men, and yet — who could 
blame ’em, after all ! 

He clapped on his hat, settled his cravat, shot his 
ruffles, and marching out of the close came face to 
face with Cavanagh. 

“What the deuce!” exclaimed young Carew, re- 
coiling. 

Larry grinned. ' “Faith, ’tis not a pretty welcome 
at all, but sure, I startled ye. You’ve seen Miss 
Forrest?” 

“I have,” returned Carew, and in spite of himself 
his ears began to burn afresh. 

The Irishman grew rigid. “In the position I 
hold as friend o’ the family — what there is left 
on’t ! — an’ her father bein’ abroad the way he can’t 
256 


IN THE WEST WING 


257 

look after her, IVe a notion I should call ye out,” 
said he grimly. 

‘‘Zoons! She’s formally refused me!” cried 
Ralph. 

‘‘Indeed?” 

“Yes, faith! But now.” 

“Well, I always said Dolly was no fool!” Cava- 
nagh relaxed and held out his hand. “I congratu- 
late ye, on me soul I do ! Ye were in the deuce of a 
cleft stick, by all accounts. Oh, I know more than 
you’ve told me, for all your pink ears ! Well now, 
there’s just one point — faith, I might almost be 
callin’ it a condition of me silence. This tale would 
be meat an’ drink to Bath, an’ it thirstin’ for a fresh 
scandal!” Lazily his hand fell on the hilt of his 
sword, and angry as Carew was he thought better 
of it, and held his tongue. “ ’Tis this,” went on 
Cavanagh persuasively. “To preserve friendly re- 
lations an’ to prevent any mis fortunate understand- 
ings that might otherwise occur, you’ll present me 
an’ Miss Forrest to your guests yonder, as friends 
of yours — or mere acquaintances, if it likes ye better 
— met here by a lucky chance as we was travelling 
into Sussex. We dine with you, me boy, an’ view 
the house after.” 

“Is that all?” cried Ralph, mightily relieved. 
“Pho, sir, a bagatelle! ’Tis granted. But gad, 
’tis a delicate matter. Miss Forrest — we must have 
a care for her good name, you — ” 

“O lud. I’m her doting uncle!” said Larry, and 
forthwith was led to the group upon the terrace. 


MY LADY APRIL 


258 

Throughout dinner Ralph was the soul of deli- 
cacy, endeavoring to hide his jubilation for fear of 
wounding the two ladies’ feelings : though, truth to 
tell, they seemed as rejoiced as he at their escape 
from the toils of matrimony. 

Seated upon his either hand they laughed together 
behind his back; bent across him to exchange trivi- 
alities, white shoulders brushing his sleeve, curls 
dangling against his very cravat, gay, provoking, al- 
together irresistible. Robin Hazelhurst made boy- 
ish love to Dorothy, elated that she had entrusted 
him with the secret of her gypsying. Philip Lash- 
mar ogled Julie; while Lucy and Colin Carmichael 
had eyes only for each other, what time Lucy was 
not flirting with Harry Wallace. 

At the foot of the table the Squire and Cavanagh 
discoursed heatedly on fox-hunting, cocking, the 
breeding of game birds and a dozen other topics of 
mutual interest: and if the Squire’s eyes wandered 
for an instant in the direction of Miss Forrest, 
Cavanagh would state something so abjectedly ab- 
surd as to arouse all Hazelhurst’s sporting instincts, 
and they were at it again, hammer and tongs; so 
that there arose no opportunity of comparing Doro- 
thy with a certain pretty peddler wench. 

Dinner ended, Ralph must conduct his guests 
over the house. 

Marsh held the door. ‘‘You’ll find it all open, 
Mr. Ralph,” said he dejectedly. “ ’Tis parlous 
damp, sir, through not being lived in regular. It’s 
all open, sir, all but the west wing.” 


IN THE WEST WING 


259 


‘‘And why not the west wing?’’ asked Miss Car- 
michael, Eve-like desiring only that which was for- 
bidden. “Is it haunted?” 

“ ’Tis never thrown open to — inspection, ma’am,” 
mourned the butler. “’Tis one o’ the rules. Sir 
Julian liked it kep’ private.” 

“But rat me, my good man! Now Sir Julian’s 
dead we’re not bound by his wishes!” cried Ralph. 
“Of course we must see the west wing. I particu- 
larly desire it. ’Tis there the heir always lives,” 
he added, turning to Julie. 

“ ’Twas one o’ the rules, sir,” deprecated Marsh, 
leading the little procession to the great drawing- 
room. “Are ye wishful that I should come, sir, to 
tell about the pictures?” 

Knowing next to nothing of them himself, young 
Carew agreed, and the butler pottered slowly 
round one paneled room after another, recounting 
the glorious deeds of long-dead Carews until 
Julie yawned behind her fan and the gentlemen 
ceased to raise their quizzing glasses at every por- 
trait. 

Having succeeded in boring them below-stairs. 
Marsh climbed to the gallery. “The west wing,” 
said he, and made to pass the head of the wide 
corridor. 

“We’ll see it,” insisted Ralph. “Come, Marsh, 
don’t be an old fool. I’m master here, an’t I?” 

Subdued, snuffling like a chidden dog, the servant 
produced keys from a casket on a window-sill, 
ostentatiously blew the dust from them and opened 


26 o 


MY LADY APRIL 


one door after another, revealing shuttered, sheeted 
rooms, dank and lonely. 

Coming into Dorothy’s boudoir Miss Carmichael 
sniffed audibly, tilting back her pretty head. “Lud, 
I could swear I smell violets !” 

Since all Dolly’s posies were hid beneath the bed, 
this was scarcely wonderful. 

“Can ye, ma’am?’’ sighed Marsh. ‘‘Ay, ay. 
Some can, an’ some can’t, not if they sniffs ever so. 
Can ye, indeed, ma’am? Mebbe ye can see some- 
thing?” 

“La, no!” gasped Julie, clutching at young Lash- 
mar for protection. “ ’Tis too dark.” 

Shutters and curtains obscured the windows, but 
in the half-light the white-draped furniture loomed, 
ghostly. 

“Shall I open a window, ma’am?” suggested the 
butler. 

“Heavens, no! There’s nothing. I’m convinced 
there’s nothing!” Julie fluttered out and the rest of 
the party trailed after; and blinking in the light of 
the corridor, moved on. 

“The library,” says Marsh, coming to a reverent 
halt before a door. “This room, ladies and gentle- 
men, this very room was, as you might say, sacred 
to the owner of the house. A sanctum, they call it. 
Here Sir Rudolf wrote his famous history of the 
Civil Wars in nine wollums bound in calf on the 
third shelf to the left as you enter. Here Sir Julian 
liked to doze of an afternoon, and here — ” 


IN THE WEST WING 


261 

‘‘Well, open the door and let us see,’^ ordered 
Ralph with very natural impatience. 

“I reelly coulldn’t take upon meself — ’’ began 
Marsh, and was shouldered aside by young Carew. 

“This is intolerable !” he cried. “Am I to be 
bearded in my own house? Let me pass, you dod- 
dering old imbecile!” He flung open the door and 
beckoned the others. “Come in ! Come in ! This 
is the library. Some of our finest portraits are — 
Good gad I” 

From the desk before the oriel a languid figure 
rose, a tall exquisite in creamy brocade, fair curls 
falling about a powdered face. Back to the light, 
he stood, regarding the intruders with half-closed, 
indolent eyes. 

“Valerius, by gad 1” shouted Ralph and leaped for- 
ward. “So ’tis here you’ve been hiding all the time, 
you skulker 1 I arrest you on suspicion of murder. 
Your sword, you hound — your sword!” 

None but Cavanagh, Dorothy and the butler was 
aware that a warrant was out for the arrest of Va- 
lerius, and dumb with amazement the guests stood 
huddled around the doorway, standing a-tiptoe, 
craning their necks to get an uninterrupted view of 
this extraordinary scene. 

“Pray come in,” drawled Valerius without mov- 
ing. “Come in and shut the door. There’s a pro- 
digious draught, and my papers — thank you. 
Marsh.” 

Somewhat at a loss, Ralph hesitated, annoyed that 


262 


MY LADY APRIL 


a dramatic moment should end thus tamely. It oc- 
curred to him that cold scorn would now be more 
impressive than bluster. He proceeded to cold 
scorn. 

“You damned villain/’ said he, advancing. 
“What of my uncle’s death?” 

“What indeed?” countered Valerius. “Is it true, 
coz?” 

“True? You killed him!” 

“You amaze me.” Valerius glanced at the in- 
trigued spectators. “Your guests are standing, coz. 
Ladies, your most devoted. Be seated, I beg. 
Gentlemen, yours to command.” He bowed, com- 
pletely master of himself and the situation. “Marsh, 
set chairs. Ralph, be good enough to present me.” 

Followed introductions, bows, curtsies; the men 
excited and eager for trouble ; the girls a-flutter with 
surprise and apprehension. 

“Now,” said Valerius, swinging his chair round 
and seating himself back to the desk and the win- 
dow. “Now let us hear more of this astounding 
accusation. In a retired life, coz, any mild sensa- 
tion is veritably a god-send.” He disposed a cush- 
ion more conveniently in the small of his back and 
crossed his legs, smoothing a crease from one silk 
ankle. 

“Gad, your airs’ll not save you!” cried Ralph, 
fuming. “Consider yourself under arrest, sir!” 

“Possibly you have a warrant?” murmured his 
cousin. 

A much-creased paper was snatched from Ralph’s 


IN THE WEST WING 263 

pocket and brandished beneath Valerius^ pale nose. 
He took it, opened it, read it with interest. 

'Tud, very curious!” said he; and ignoring 
Ralph turned toward the Squire who, blue eyes 
snapping with amazement, was leaning forward in 
his chair. “Mr. Hazelhurst, I believe you are a 
magistrate?” 

“I have that honor,” replied the Squire. 

“Then, sir, if ’t would not be disagreeable to 
you, might I suggest that you conduct this — 
inquiry?” 

“With pleasure. Sir Valerius, with pleasure!” 
The Squire bounced up, seized a small table and 
planted it in front of his seat. “Informal, deuced 
informal. But at your request, sir, Tm willing to 
obleege. A little elbow room, Lucy, my dear. 
Now, pens? Ink? Paper — ah, thank’ee. Marsh, 
thank’ee. Now let’s see this warrant.” He read 
it through, frowning, puckering his mild lips in 
deliberation. “Hum, this seems in order. Carew, 
let’s hear your statement.” 

Ralph, on his feet with alacrity, shot his ruffles, 
snuffed, and wished the room were lighter. 

“I was not present at Sir Julian’s death, sir,” 
he began. “I left the house before my cousin in 
order to attend the Rooms — ” 

“Which house? What rooms?” snapped the 
Squire. “Demme, Carew, have the goodness to 
be explicit.” 

“Gad, sir, I forgot you know nothing of it,” 
said Ralph. 


MY LADY APRIL 


264 

‘'Not a word, sir. Not a word. My mind’s a 
perfect blank, as all good judges’ should be.” 

“Sure, they are!” interposed Cavanagh, and the 
court had to be called to order. 

Then, concisely as he could, Ralph told the story 
of the night of his uncle’s eightieth birthday: of the 
old man’s angry disgust at Valerius and his foppish 
ways : of the coming of Valerius, and of how he had 
left them together. Then of the major-domo seek- 
ing him at the Rooms, and telling him how he had 
found Sir Julian dead upon the floor and Valerius 
fled. 

“You’ve no direct evidence of foul play,” said 
the Squire at length. 

“Harris overheard — ” 

“That’s not direct evidence.” 

“No, sir. But Harris overheard Sir Julian 
swear he’d break the entail in my favor,” returned 
Ralph. “He did not live to do it. If Valerius 
were innocent, why did he fly?” 

A movement of spurred interest fluttered over the 
little assembly. 

The Squire turned to Valerius. “Now, sir, if 
you’ll favor us with your side of the story, we may 
learn why ye fled.” 

“ ’Tis little I have to tell, sir,” responded the 
baronet, rising to lean wearily upon the back of 
his chair. “ ’Tis true I arrived too late to dine with 
my uncle. ’Tis true I refused to drink with him, 
but that, I assure you, was not because I wished him 
ill, but because I — in fact — wished myself well.” 


IN THE WEST WING 265 

‘That proves — began Ralph. 

“Good lack, coz, it proves nothing! If I’d 
offered to drink Sir Julian’s health in water, he 
might have found cause for offense, but am I to 
make myself a sewer for fear of wounding another’s 
convention?” 

“Demmed unusual I” said Carmichael in an 
audible aside to Harry Wallace. “Sounds devilish 
as if the fellow were in training!” 

Valerius appeared to lean even more heavily upon 
the carved chair. ‘‘I thank you, sir, for that word,” 
he drawled. “F faith, ’tis true. I was in training.” 
With one abnormally white hand he flicked a 
speck of dust from his cuff and gazed with half- 
shut, lazy eyes at the astonished Colin. 

Ralph shouted with laughter. “O lud, in train- 
ing! Valerius in training? Pho, nonsense! ’Tis 
absurd! If you knew him as — ” 

“And what followed?” quoth the Squire, flapping 
his hand at Ralph for silence. 

Valerius considered. “Oh, we talked. My uncle 
was pleased to be invidious. He called me — if my 
memory serves — a brainless ass, a booby, a — let 
me see — a flaccid nonentity, with other things I’ll 
refrain from repeating in company. But what 
though? He was an old man, and my relative. I 
let it pass. My calm appeared to infuriate Sir 
Julian. He foamed, sir, positively foamed, and 
fell into what can only be described as a frenzy. 
I rang for his butler who gave him some draught 
he kept in readiness for such attacks. Harris 


266 


MY LADY APRIL 


opened the windows, and as Sir Julian began to 
revive, I sent the servant away to give the necessary 
orders/' 

“What orders?" growled Ralph suspiciously. 

“Why to be sure, to have his bed warmed and 
the doctor summoned. While Harris was gone my 
uncle recovered amazingly, sat up, knew me, and 
again began to rage and fume. I attempted to 
soothe him, but my efforts seemed to augment his 
choler. He threw an orange at my head and 
ordered me out of the house. Fearful for his 
health if I persisted to remain — I left." 

“What was Sir Julian doing at that moment?" 
asked the Squire. 

“He stood by the table, holding on by one hand 
and shaking the other in my face. 'Twas my last 
sight of him." 

“None saw you leave?" 

“I believe not, sir." 

The Squire hesitated, twirling a quill between 
finger and thumb. “Yet had you passed .through 
the hall, surely a footman, some servant — " 

“I did not, sir. Gad, I was so monstrous upset, 
I forgot myself so far as to leap out of the win- 
dow." 

“But — (Carew, have the goodness to hold your 
tongue! Fm conducting this inquiry.) But tell 
me, Sir Valerius, if you were innocent, why did 
you hide?" 

For a long time Valerius remained motionless, 
his head bent, his fingers clutching the back of his 


IN THE WEST WING 267 

chair as though some precious thing were about to 
slip from his grasp. He appeared to be consider- 
ing, weighing one momentous alternative against 
another. 

At length, sighing, he looked up, his wide eyes 
cavernous in the pallor of his face. 

^^Gad, sir, ’tis a long story,” he said wearily. 

*'Yet must we hear.” 

Twould tax your belief to — ” 

'‘Yet, tell us.” 

“I did not hide!” he said in a ringing voice. “I 
went to my lodging and changed my dress and was 
present at a supper given by his patrons to the gypsy 
boxer, Merodach!” 

“Faith, I can bear witness to that I” cried 
Cavanagh. 

“I heard nothing of Sir Julian’s death until next 
morning, when Mr. Cavanagh himself brought the 
news.” For the fraction of a second Valerius’ 
glance rested on Dorothy. 

“ ’Tis true, sir,” affirmed Cavanagh. 

But from her seat beside Julie Carmichael, Miss 
Forrest rose, white, gasping from the shock of 
sudden enlightenment. “You — ^you are Mero- 
dach I” she cried, swaying, her hands at her throat. 
“You are Merodach!” 

“I am Merodach!” said Valerius Carew. 

“What — what’s this?” spluttered the Squire, 
staring. 

“Good ged, Merodach?'' shouted Colin Carmi- 
chael. 


268 


MY LADY APRIL 


With one accord the men sprang to their feet 
vociferating, ‘Trove it! Prove it!’^ 

“If the ladies permit,” drawled Valerius, smiling. 

“Prove it, Merodach,” cried Dorothy. 

Like a lightning flash he straightened up, whipped 
off coat and waistcoat, pulled his ruffled shirt over 
his head and stood, naked to the waist, rubbing his 
powdered face clean upon the yellow curls of his 
great wig. Laughing, he tossed the mass of hair in- 
to the corner and stretched his mighty arms; and 
threw back his dark head like a colt released from 
the halter. 

Modest squeaks from the girls, who nevertheless 
gazed admiringly at him from behind spread fans : 
shouts and laughter from the men, who crowded 
round to shake his hand: tears of joy from old 
Marsh : disgusted grunts from Ralph : the library 
was a pandemonium for five palpitating minutes. 

“But even now,” shouted Ralph as soon as he 
could make himself heard above the hubbub. 
“Even now, you han’t proved you had no hand 
in — hastening Sir Julian’s end!” In the face of 
this lithe fighter he hesitated to use the word “kill.” 

“You’re right, coz,” laughed Valerius — or 
Merodach, which you will — dressing with the aid 
of Robin. “No, not that damned wig, lad. Never 
again! Here, Marsh, use this for a foster-mother 
when that broody hen hatches out !” He flung the 
flaxen wig in the butler’s grinning face, and turned 
to Ralph. “Mr. Cavanagh has a document will 
interest you. Cavanagh?” 


IN THE WEST WING 269 

The Irishman spread Janet’s statement before the 
Squire, who pored over it intently. 

“The woman would appear before a magistrate 
and swear to this?’’ said he, looking up. 

“She will, sir. But I’ve proved the truth of her 
story. I went to the house and looked from the 
window of the gaming room. Faith, ye can see 
everything that goes on in Sir Julian’s dining-room, 
just as she says.’’ 

“Then, if you’ll listen to advice, Carew,” said 
the Squire, rising with an air of finality, “you’ll pop 
your ridiculous warrant behind the fire, and say 
no more about it.” 

Ralph hesitated, screwed the paper into a ball 
and threw it upon the hearth, his handsome young 
face clearing. “Gad,” said he, thrusting a hand 
toward his cousin, “I owe you an apology, Val. I 
was mad to doubt you, but you’ll admit I’d cause.” 

Valerius laughed and clapped him on the back. 
“I’ll forgive your suspicions, Ralph, if you’ll for- 
give my deception. But — you know my boyhood 
was spent abroad. Can’t you realize how tedious 
was life in such a place as Bath after gypsying half 
over Europe? I came to England ready to live as 
other men of my station. But two months in Lon- 
don — two weeks in Bath and Tunbridge! Faugh, 
I was bored, nauseated! I longed for the clean 
wind in my face and the open sky above my bed. 
I returned to my gypsyhood.” 

“But your disguise — your fair wig?” said Ralph, 
puzzled. “Didn’t Sir Julian — ?” 


270 


MY LADY APRIL 


‘'Oh, I was a month in England before I saw my 
uncle. Even in so short a time I knew I never 
could endure such an existence, and ’twas simpler 
to act a part for a day or two now and again, than 
for months together. Sir Julian would never have 
forgiven me had I gone wandering in my own 
person, hence — Merodach.’^ 

“And nobody knew?” cried Julie Carmichael. 

“None would have understood. None but old 
Marsh, and he could sympathize, having loved and 
served my father. I got him installed here as but- 
ler, and used to walk over when Bath palled.” 

“But sure, someone must have suspected?” in- 
sisted the Squire. 

“Oh, I’d two lodgings in Bath. One for Valerius 
Carew in Gay Street, one for Merodach up an alley 
behind the meat market. I kept no valet, and I took 
enormous pains that none should see me come and 
go. ’Twas tiresome, but ’twas worth it.” 

“But you needn’t have turned prize fighter ! 
Demme, Val, han’t you any self-respect?” com- 
plained Ralph, never at ease when the conventions 
were disregarded. 

Valerius stared at him, shrugged, and broke into 
a laugh. 

“Faith, lad, you’ve a lot to learn,” said he and 
turned to the others, his eyes wandering until they 
rested upon Dorothy. “Truly, friends, Merodach 
is the real man. Valerius Carew — the fop who 
han’t enough energy to kill a fly — aha, that rankles. 


IN THE WEST WING 


271 


my lady ! — he was the disguise. The boredom 
wasn’t assumed, I can assure you. Gad, how I 
loathed Bath ! But for my uncle’s sake ’twas neces- 
sary, now and again, to endure it. Bath got more 
amusement out of Valerius than I did!” Again he 
looked across the little assembly to Dorothy — 
Dorothy wide-eyed, flushed like a cottage rose, 
trembling under his glance. ‘‘Shall we tell them, 
sweet?” he said, and went to her with such a light 
of happiness in his face that none waited to be told. 

Cavanagh shouted: the Squire, remembering a 
spring night thirty years ago, trumpeted into his 
hanker and stammered incoherent congratulations. 
The two girls and Dorothy clasped and kissed in 
a laughing triangle, and the men were so evidently 
thirsting to drink healths that Marsh, unbidden, 
brought up the last of old Sir Antony’s port. 

“Miss Forrest!” cried Ralph, bowing above his 
glass. “Let me be the first to wish you joy, you — 
you maddening creature! Gad, I’ve a mind to take 
a leaf out o’ your book, ma’am, and demand an ex- 
planation !” 

Dorothy gave him her hand. “Thank you, coz,” 
said she demurely, her eyes dancing behind their 
lashes in a way that he remembered. “And by the 
bye, touching a certain challenge which you 
accepted — ’tis withdrawn.” 

“You broke your vow?” he cried, teasing her. 

She shook her head. “But I dare swear you 
slept within a house last night.” 

“At the Manor,” he admitted. “But you?” 


272 


MY LADY APRIL 


'*1 had an apple-tree for roof. Twas heaven to 
look up and see the stars behind the blossom.^’ 

^‘Demme, you’re well matched !” cried the 
Squire. ‘"Shall you turn gypsy, my dear, and tramp 
your honeymoon?” 

Dorothy looked up: Valerius looked down, and 
smiled as their eyes met. “Yes, sir. We intend 
to finish our interrupted journey into Sussex,” said 
he, and twinkled. “To-morrow!” 

“To-morrow?” whispered Dorothy, flushing, 
hesitating, as maids will, on the brink of wifehood. 

“To-morrow?” shouted the Squire, young Carew, 
and Miss Hazelhurst’s three adorers. 

“Why not?” said Valerius. “Why should we 
wait ? Here are bride and groom and guests assem- 
bled. As soon as I knew from Larry that I was 
cleared I packed a lad off for my old friend — ” he 
broke off as the door opened. 

“His Reverence Father Ignatius, sir,” said Marsh. 


THE END 


















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